


Jeeves and the Tennis Coach

by out_there



Category: Jeeves and Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-19
Updated: 2007-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 56,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Have there been any times when you, Mr Wooster, managed to get the best of Jeeves?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Tennis Coach

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дживс и тренер по теннису](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966477) by [sige_vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sige_vic/pseuds/sige_vic)



There is something eminently satisfying about receiving letters from one's readers. It's quite an unexpected delight to open the morning's mail and find a missive asking questions about this acquaintance or that, wondering how I met Bingo (while a boy at Eton, if you were in the middle of wondering that very question), or where Jeeves and I would recommend visiting while in New York (the Stork Club, located on East 53rd Street, is a wonderful example of what Americans quaintly call a 'speakeasy' and a topping spot for a good b-and-s).

I tell you this, dear readers, so that you will grasp my positive reaction to finding a letter addressed to yours truly, asking a most intriguing question: have there been any times when you, Mr Wooster, managed to get the best of Jeeves?

Well, I say.

It's not the type of question one gets asked often. When talking about this precise question, it's not one I've ever been asked. Most people of my acquaintance know Jeeves and his rather remarkable brain, and therefore would not dare to think that such a thing would be possible.

We Woosters are known amongst our contemporaries. We are possessed of bright, if slightly unusual minds -- especially in the case of my Uncle Henry and his reported habit of carrying on conversations with other people's rose bushes -- and stiff upper lips in times of trial. We are ready with shoulders for damsels to cry on and comforting words for friends in trouble. However, when comparing the Woosters with the Jeeveses, there is a notable difference in the mental faculties, if you catch my meaning.

This leads to the logical answer that I've never managed to get the upper hand on Jeeves, but such logic would lead you wrong. On several occasions, I've come so close as to mark it a victory.

The first occasion would be my decision to travel to New York. At the time Jeeves had been quite keen on overseas travel, stating that it provided education both for a man's soul and mind. As I said at the time, I am full up on education, having suffered through numerous years of it at Oxford, Eton and Bramley-on-Sea. After sitting through many a lecture by the fearsome Rev. Aubrey, education stops resembling flashes of light from heaven and appears more like sparks from a firing squad.

Jeeves said, "Yes, sir," in that way of his that means nothing of the sort. He did not mean that he agreed with me; rather he meant that he understood that I had not yet agreed and was considering other ways to convince his wayward employer. He started by leaving brochures around where I would be sure to see them. They were the type filled with glossy photographs of skylines and tall buildings, and pictures of very large boats with crisply pressed sailors.

I would have none of it. Indeed, I said as much. "Jeeves," I said one morning over my tea, "this will stop now."

Jeeves played that he did not understand my meaning. "What will stop, sir?"

"This meddling, Jeeves. This meddling will stop. I have said that I will not travel and so travel I won't. I will not be connived into sailing over oceans by means of colourful brochures or talk of widening my mind. Are we clear, Jeeves?"

One does not like to be harsh, but there are times when one must draw a line and stand by it. Otherwise one becomes a servant to one's servants and that will not do.

"Yes, sir," he said and then left to draw a disapproving bath.

The brochures disappeared, as well they should have, but Jeeves had not given up. His next approach was to mention, in passing conversation, his niece in New York and her latest letter to him. As one might expect, he was quite subtle in drawing her into the topic of the day and would somehow manage to mention how the play I'd seen last night sounded similar to one his niece had recently seen on Broadway, and from there branch out to how remarkable she was finding the New York nightlife.

I withstood these pointed comments as many a Wooster has withstood attacks, with courage and a congenial smile. "How interesting," I would say with civility, or "You don't say?"

When my patience was extremely pushed, I would say, "Really, Jeeves?" in a cold tone, and Jeeves would drop the matter for the day, sensing that the Wooster temper is not to be trifled with.

No matter how persistent Jeeves was, I did not succumb. In battles of wills, I usually admit defeat graciously and allow Jeeves to run my life as he sees fit. Sartorial matters notwithstanding, Jeeves' judgement is the soundest I know and can be trusted to lead to the most desirable outcome for all involved. But I had made my point, and stand by it I would. So I forbore -- if forbore is the word I want -- Jeeves' comments and his ability to deposit American detective stories by my bedside.

Now I am sure the more observant of my readers will be standing up, crying, "But, Mr Wooster, how can you claim this valiant withstanding of Jeeves' powers of suggestion? We have read your stories and we know that you went to New York. How do you explain that kettle of fish?"

To those readers I reply that, while I am a man of iron constitution, able to withstand Jeeves' cunning mind while still enjoying the finer things in life, it would take a far stronger man than I to withstand a monstrous relative on par with the fabled Medusa. In other words, I was ordered to go to New York by my Aunt Agatha, a woman whose glare could turn a man's courage to stone and his spine to jelly, or vice versa.

The important thing to remember about this tale is that it was not Jeeves who compelled me to travel. Jeeves may have many powers, but I doubt that it was he who managed to make my cousin Gussie run off to America in pursuit of a stage actress.

Though I still wonder why Aunt Agatha thought I was the best candidate to convince Gussie not to marry his dramatic dream girl. The mind of Aunt Agatha is a steel trap, sharp enough to slice a finger clean off, and she usually spouts the opinion that re: family respectability, I'm as much use as a Brussels sprout. When I wrote to her of Gussie's happy nuptials to that same dear actress, she spouted that opinion quite clearly.

The second occasion that I matched wits with Jeeves involved a particularly natty pair of striped flannel trousers.

As my readers will be aware, when it comes to matters of dress, Jeeves can be ... one does not like to use the word hidebound, but hidebound he is. His tastes tend towards the conservative, the tried and true. He lacks the spirit of adventure required when following current fashions and simply can't appreciate that young gentlemen of today do not follow the same sartorial standards that our grandfathers did.

While I understand his disapproval of Oxford bags, and agree that there is something quite ridiculous about young men walking around with their trouser cuffs dragging along the pathway, his objection to striped flannel is rather unjustified.

This particular pair was pale green, striped with a fetching yellow, and had been quite admired by Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright when I collected them from my tailor's. They struck quite a chord with the rest of the Drones when I wore them, but I get ahead of myself.

Firstly, I should say that I knew of Jeeves' prejudice against the noble striped f. Hence I also ensured that I purchased a dove-grey shirt and blue tie woven with light charcoal lines that would meet with Jeeves' approval. Refusing the usual delivery service, I carried the items home myself.

When I got to my front door, I spent a few minutes with my ear pressed against the wood, holding my breath as I listened for Jeeves' footsteps. The trouble with this is that when entering or leaving a room, Jeeves has the rummiest ability to move soundlessly, to enter and exit rooms without any of its occupants noticing. While this makes him a tremendous valet and precisely the chap you want after a particularly rambunctious night, it vastly reduces the effectiveness of eavesdropping for footsteps.

So I straightened, set my shoulders and walked fearlessly into the lion's den. Luckily for me, Jeeves was in the kitchen.

I called out a cheery, "What ho, Jeeves!" and headed for my bedroom, much like a fox heads to the nearest thicket when the hounds are on its trail. I had just stashed the trousers under my pillow when Jeeves spoke behind me.

"Good afternoon, sir."

As I said, the man is blessed with the rummiest ability to walk without a sound.

Fixing my most charming smile in place, I handed him the bag of garments. "I stopped in at my tailors and simply had to buy these."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Catsmeat thought they were quite becoming." I did not flinch at the way Jeeves' expression sunk to one capable of freezing over rushing rivers, but it was a near thing.

"While Mr Potter-Pirbright is considered well presented by his followers, his features differ quite essentially from yours, sir."

"I don't follow your meaning at all, Jeeves."

"What suits him may not necessarily suit you, sir," Jeeves said, in his most reasonable tone.

Don't be fooled by the reasonable tone, dear readers. Jeeves uses that tone to make the most ludicrous of proposals sound judicious and prudent, to make aunts and uncles agree with his discreetly phrased suggestions. That reasonable voice and chiselled countenance has changed more than one mind. It must be treated with the utmost gravity.

Accordingly, I waved at the bag and said, "Then perhaps you should give me your opinion, Jeeves, as to whether or not it will suit me."

He opened the bag cautiously, and then the ghost of a smile settled across his handsome brow. "They would be quite becoming, sir. If you wished to wear them this afternoon, I could press them now."

"Splendid idea, Jeeves!" I said, pleased both by the suggestion and by the idea of Jeeves ironing in the kitchen. It would give me the opportunity to find my new trousers a more suitable hiding place. Knowing Jeeves and the miraculous way that my bed never appears to be rumpled, they would not stay undiscovered if left under my pillow.

This led to two weeks of careful cunning, as I had to ensure that the trousers remained hidden and could not trust that any particular hiding place would remain a secret from Jeeves for long. I got to the stage where I couldn't relax with a good book or have a jolly time at the club because at the back of my mind I kept worrying over the latest sequestered spot and if Jeeves would find it.

The other problem was that I couldn't wear them out. After all the cloak-and-dagger of buying and keeping the trousers, you would have thought that I'd be able to show them off at a suitable occasion. But to do that, it would require dressing when Jeeves was not at home and leaving the flat without Jeeves seeing me. When one has a valet as attentive and efficient as Jeeves, that's a mighty hard thing to do.

The tension of hiding my prized striped flannels without even being able to wear them was too much to bear. It took a day's rumination on the subject to come up with a solution. I would sneak the trousers out of the flat, to the Drones Club, and keep them there. That way, I could find a private spot to change into them when I wished to wear them and Jeeves would be none the wiser. Even if he happened to spot me in them, given that I never wore them back to the flat, they would remain safe from his nefarious and conservative ways.

Thus decided, I put my plan into motion. On a particularly crisp day, one that warranted a coat, I decided to return to my room under the guise of changing my tie. Then I took my flannel trousers from their current resting place behind my dressing table mirror and hid them beneath my coat. Clamping down an arm in desperate hopes that they wouldn't slip and fall to the floor, I walked over my doorstep and to sartorial freedom.

I left quickly, telling Jeeves that I had changed my mind and decided the navy tie I was wearing was the superior choice, and headed straight for the club. I kept my arm clenched against my side the entire way. It didn't relax until I'd rounded the corner of Dover Street and was safely inside the heavy wooden doors, surrounded by fellow Drones.

Needless to say, I went and changed costume, and was received quite favourably by the crowd. Boko Fittleworth was quite taken with them, declaring them to be the bee's knees. Considering Boko's usual sensibilities towards dressing and his ability to make Jeeves flinch at a casual glance I would normally be wary of his praise, but the rest of the fellows agreed, and a dozen Drones are not wrong in matters of attire. If there is one thing that a good Drone knows, it is London fashions.

That was the second time that I bested Jeeves' attempts to control every aspect of my life. "Ah but wait, Mr Wooster," I hear you saying, "What happened to these hard-won trousers?" It was the strangest thing. After a night of celebrating my success, I changed back into the trousers I had worn when leaving the flat, and asked the Drones' butler, Rodgers, to hang the precious flannels somewhere safe.

When I dropped into the club the next day, they were nowhere to be found. I tracked Rodgers down and asked him for the whereabouts, and he apologised quite profusely. Apparently, they had been found in the early hours of the morning by some of the other club members, who were preserved up to the gills with brandy. The cold light of day had shown my beloved striped f. horrendously stained with wine. Well, in such a situation, there is very little that one can do. Once he's had a few drinks, the best of fellows can become clumsy and with the best of intentions, accidents will happen. There is nothing that will save a favourite item from a nasty encounter with red wine. Before the advent of Jeeves, many were the shirts lost to such stains.

I could have approached Jeeves with the item in question and asked him to perform whichever magic he used to save those shirts, but that would have made the entire deceitful charade rather pointless. A gentleman knows when to admit defeat.

I did say several times, implying more than twice, but this third time... To put it bluntly, I hesitate to mention it. Much like conking policemen and stealing silver cow creamers, this is not an issue one would want brought to a magistrate's attention. However I have trusted my dear readers to have the common decency not to go blabbing every detail to Sir Watkyn Basset and his ilk, so I assume I can trust you all with this as well.

Between my brushes with matrimonial entrapment and the experiences of chums, I have more than a passing familiarity with the nuances of romance. Many a time a friend in need has come to old Bertie with his tale of lovelorn woe for a dose of encouragement and advice.

Now, the thing that most people forget is the importance of subtlety when courting the object of one's affections. Said o. of one's a. must be wooed carefully, gently, much in the way one would calm a friend who had pointed a gun to his temple and expressed the desire to end the whole shebang. Judicious use of soft words and much talk about the general wonderfulness of life is generally the best way to go about it.

Yet there is something about love that robs most people of the ability to think clearly and remember this. They read the wrong types of novels -- the kind written by Rosie M Banks and her contemporaries, filled to the brim with proud, middle-class girls and bold, passionate, young men -- and start thinking the key to seduction is sweeping statements and dramatic gestures. This, I may tell you with some authority, is not the case.

Following my advice will lead to an engagement in a quick and sure matter, I may assure you. Following the example set by those literary heroes, on the other hand, tends to result in disaster all around. Young men fret at the idea of sudden responsibilities and hie themselves to their club to relax. Young ladies return to the family home and start entertaining the interests of others. Meanwhile, friends of both are subjected to hours of conversation on the relative merits or failings of the other party. It is misery for everyone.

So, as I said, in matters of the heart, patience and temperance must be the watch-words of the day. One cannot throw oneself into the arms of a beloved and hope they will catch you. You have a far greater chance that they will take three quick steps backwards and watch you hit the carpet like the first fish of the day flopping onto land.

The important detail -- the one that I failed to mention -- is that the object of my affections ate a great deal of fish and wore a size eleven bowler hat. To put it quite plainly, I'd found myself quite infatuated by Jeeves and showing all the typical signs of staring into space, smiling goofily and generally finding the sunshine brighter and roses sweeter.

As soon as I noticed this, I stopped it right away. Flopping like a fish and staring like a moon-dazed cow is only effective on girls like Madeleine Basset. For a fellow like Jeeves, who is accustomed to studying the psychology of the individual, one must be far more cunning.

The first step, as in any well-laid battle plan, is to scout your surroundings and find the lie of the land. All it takes is something as simple as an offhand comment, something subtle like wondering aloud, "Whatever happened to that Mary girl, Jeeves?"

Jeeves blinked but continued pouring my brandy with an ease that many a barman has sought to emulate, if emulate is the word I want. "Mary, sir?"

"Surname started with an A. Bingo was head-over-heels for her at one time."

"I'm afraid that doesn't narrow the possibilities a great deal, sir."

"I was sure it was a Mary," I said, racking up the grey cells and taking a shot. "Maybe it was a Myrtle. From that tea shop on Branch Street?"

"I believe you're thinking of Mabel Knightly, formerly Miss Mabel Ashworth, sir."

"Formerly?" I said, bucking up a great deal. You see, this girl had gone from an unsuccessful understanding with Bingo -- one in which he understood her to be a charming, earthy girl and she understood him to be the type of man able to convince wealthy relatives to approve the engagement -- to an understanding with Jeeves, last I heard. It was quite remarkable to think of a girl interested in Bingo being then interested in Jeeves, not unlike imagining a keen sportswoman deciding that she no longer loved hounds and was potty for foxes.

However strange it was, this attachment had played on my mind. The Code of the Woosters strictly forbids interfering in another's romantic life, unless you happen to be helping two lovebirds get together or stay together, or lending a hand to a pal who's landed in an unfortunate engagement. When it comes to destroying another's happiness in order to pursue one's own selfish pleasures, the Code will not allow it.

But as I'd been pondering this dismal prospect, the girl had up and married someone else. It was all very fortunate. Although probably not so fortunate for Jeeves at the time. "Was it sudden, Jeeves?"

"She was married on the seventeenth of last May to a Spencer Knightly of Knightly and Sons' Fine Furniture. I've heard she's quite happy, sir." I doubted anyone could have out-stiffed Jeeves' upper lip at that particular moment. Maintaining a brave face while burdened by disappointment was a true sign of a noble man.

"And what about you, Jeeves? Any new romances to take the sting from the old?"

Here, Jeeves glanced at me. Only a passing glance, less than a momentary flicker of his attention, but for an instant I was quite certain he would refuse to answer. It was a quite personal question and Jeeves has a deep belief in maintaining one's correct station in life -- in gentlemen and valets both acting as they should and not trotting all over each other's worlds -- but then he gave a soft cough and returned to the decanter. "Not at present, sir."

While I was careful not to jump to my feet and cry, "Aha! All is well!", I will not deny there was a certain air of victory to the way I swirled my glass that night.

The method from here was simple. Jeeves, magnificent as he may be, has a tendency to clutter these things with complications and detailed schemes when, nine times out of ten, mere propinquity will do the trick.

Quite often, I've ended up engaged to a girl after doing nothing more elaborate and romantic than spending a good while hanging about and chatting to fill in the time. I have a theory that love -- romantic love, I mean, because familial love is something completely different and tends to be dictated to one at an early age, and is therefore quite beyond anyone's control -- comes in two main varieties: the fast and the slow. The fast is that sudden strike of lightning when you first hear a tinkling laugh or see a particularly fetching profile. It leaves you quite muddled, nervous and unable to speak around the desired, and quite unable to talk of anything else when you're not around them. Bingo Little could tell you about it in much detail.

The second type, the type that tends to blindside me and land me in the bisque, is the slow kind, which seems to be a case of simply becoming accustomed to another's face and voice.

I had high hopes of this working in Jeeves' case. After all, Jeeves is not the sort that you would expect to fall fast for anyone. His mind may be hare footed -- thoughts flying faster than telegraphs while the rest of us plod along like plough horses -- but the rest of him is steadfast and measured, steeped in tradition and the feudal spirit. That's not the type of fellow to lose his head over any profile, no matter how resplendent.

So while Bingo ran around flattering tea-room waitresses and Tuppy alternately argued and apologised to my cousin Angela, the only change I made to my weekly routine was to stay in a few more nights.

At first this had very little effect on the working relationship between Jeeves and me. Any half-rate valet will know not to burden his employer with his presence, not to hover over the young master's shoulder while he is enjoying a rest from the general festivities of the club, and Jeeves is far better than half-rate. In the middle of a thrilling novel about detectives and blood-soaked knives, the last thing one wants is clomping footsteps -- not that Jeeves ever clomps, mind you -- and the sound of someone fussing behind you. On the other hand, when one is purposely hovering by one's hearth in order to induce fondness for one's company, having a competent valet who remains silent and scarce can make things difficult.

A lesser man would have shrunk from this challenge or sought counsel from worldly friends. I will admit that I considered this but the prospect of asking Bingo or Gussie or any of the Drones crowd for advice was downright depressing. It would be like an eagle approaching a sparrow for advice on the art of hunting small wriggling creatures. While the sparrow might have some experience, and some stories of what had worked for him, it was laughable that an eagle would be reduced to such tactics. Not to mention the strong possibility that they would misunderstand the delicacy of the situation and biff straight round to Jeeves for his input.

Instead of bemoaning my situation to the sympathetic ears of certain fatheaded fellows, I wandered to a nearby bookshop and scoured the shelves with eyes as sharp as any bird of prey's. Ignoring the fiction shelves where I most like to browse, I found my way to the philosophy section. Most of those books are heavy tomes, filled with complicated sentences and sprinkled with foreign words in italics -- normally German or Greek -- and filled with ideas that only Florence Craye or Honoria Glossop could follow.

I opened a few to test them. Letting them fall to a random page, I would read a sentence or two to see if it was comprehensible to a chap like me. Most failed dismally.

The one that didn't immediately fail and start trouncing the old grey matter started with, _"Sober passions make men commonplace. If I hang back before the enemy, when my country's safety is at stake, I am but a poor citizen."_ It went on to talk about self-regarding friendships and how one must rally to the call of a friend in need, and all that. It seemed like the perfect thing.

The perfect thing for what, you may ask, and I would say that it was the perfect thing to read at the flat while Jeeves made himself scarce. The title was "Diderot's Early Philosophical Works" and in matters of philosophy -- in matters of all things, certainly, but especially philosophy -- Jeeves can always be counted upon to explain confusing ideas and to discuss their meaning. The book, therefore, was the perfect thing for encouraging conversation.

I tried the ruse that night. First, I left it sitting in plain view beside my chair and I did not miss the way that Jeeves glanced down at the title. He did not mention it, but the set of his shoulders seemed rather approving. Next, after dinner, I settled back with a brandy and opened the thing.

It wasn't long before I came across a sentence like this:

 _"The agitation caused by Diderot and his circle about the theory of transformism, it has been said, must have largely contributed to awaken the attention of Erasmus Darwin in England and Lamarck in France to the necessity of throwing more positive light on that great issue."_

"Jeeves," I said, drawing him over, "you wouldn't happen to know anything about this Diderot fellow, would you?"

Jeeves did not fail me.

"Denis Diderot was a French philosopher and writer in the mid-1700s, sir. He was quite a prominent figure in the so-called Age of Enlightenment, which advocated reason as a means to establishing an authoritative system of aesthetics, ethics, government, and logic. He wrote several essays and was the editor-in-chief of the famous _Encyclopédie_ , although that was heavily edited without his permission before printing."

I had to stop for a moment to follow Jeeves' meaning. He has that effect on many people. "Then you're just the bird to ask. This bit here," I pointed at the above-mentioned passage, "this theory of transformations. What is that, Jeeves?"

"I take it you mean the theory of transformism, sir?"

"That's the thing."

"It was an early theory that attempted to rationalise biology and what we now know as evolution, sir."

I gestured at him to continue.

"Lamarck, a French naturalist, was the first to seriously propose a theory that dictated the form of animals and offspring, stating that the law of use and disuse and that of inheritance of acquired characteristics could explain the changes in species. The law of use and disuse was also accepted and propagated by Darwin and his theory of evolution."

As I'd suspected, the book did the trick. Jeeves is as skilled in conversation as anything else and once the conversation was started, it continued to flow along gaily. It continued until nearly midnight, when I was in the middle of telling Jeeves about the science class at Eton that was planning to bisect -- or I may mean dissect; it's definitely some sort of sect -- the classroom's frog. Now, as any boy of thirteen will tell you, a fellow at that age can become quite attached to a familiar creature, much as he may become attached to a favourite horse or hound.

"We had even named the thing, Jeeves," I said, and Jeeves, sitting on the couch -- since making him stand for such a long conversation would have been extremely cruel and kept it a more formal affair -- interrupted.

"You named the thing Jeeves, sir?"

Someone who does not know Jeeves might not understand Jeeves' sense of humour and may have taken this for a serious question. However, someone like me, familiar with his droll ways, could hear the joke beneath the grave tone.

"Actually, Jeeves, we named him Caesar Augustus. Caesar for the regal way that he sat upon a rock, staring at the Science Master as if he were a lowly servant. And Augustus for his resemblance to Gussie Fink-Nottle."

Jeeves nodded. "From some angles, there is a rather amphibious structure to Mr Fink-Nottle's features."

"That's what we thought. Of course, no one would have said it to his face. That would have been cruel. But the true meaning of Caesar's epithet was common knowledge." I stopped to sip my brandy. "The Science Master was a tall thin man, can't remember his name but he looked like an overcooked piece of asparagus, and clearly did not share our fondness for the creature. So when Catsmeat suggested that we liberate Caesar, he didn't have to convince any of us."

"The battle cry to protect a beloved class pet tends to stir the sleeping gallant within young gentlemen."

"We were stirred, Jeeves. We were positively shaken up. Outraged, even."

"I can imagine," Jeeves said. He had one arm on the armrest and leant towards me slightly; it was the most relaxed I'd seen him in a good while.

"We hatched a plan to steal into the classroom late at night. It involved sneaking out of our rooms, silently tripping down the halls, and required a whole range of look-outs to ensure the safety of the mission. Catsmeat had managed to steal keys -- I'm still not sure how but he said it had something to do with his impersonation of the Earl of Balfour -- and there was a careful system of birdcalls in place to warn the poor fool doing the burglary if the authorities decided to show without invitation."

"And what was your role in the daring iniquity, sir?"

I gawked at him. "Iniquity? That's a touch strong, Jeeves. We were protecting a helpless creature, saving it from a fate... well, not worse than death, but being murdered and then split asunder and gawked at by an entire crowd is still a rotten fate. We were saving it, performing an act of mercy. Nothing lawless about it."

"Apart from the way you broke the school's rules, one may assume."

"Well, apart from that trifling affair, but now you're quibbling over details, Jeeves. It was a gallant deed well done. As for my part, I was the one who pulled the shortest straw of the lot so I had to sneak into the classroom, calico bag at the ready, and then ease the lid off Caesar's tank. Caesar was a bally good sport about the whole thing. Barely squirmed when I picked him up and settled into the bag as if it were a top Summer hotel for all amphibians of class."

I mimicked the movement. It's a rather precise movement, picking up a creature that can jump at any moment and fitting him into a bag designed for heavy books. Jeeves' lips twitched.

"I had to take him back upstairs and slot him into one of Gussie's newt tanks. Would have gone without a hitch, if not for Stinker Pinker. That bungler Stinker forgot which birdcall meant someone was coming from ahead of me and which meant he was coming from behind, and in that frozen moment of forgetting, he forgot to warn me at all."

"Indeed, sir?"

"The English Master walked straight into me. I'd been walking quite swiftly and suddenly Mr Thistledown was right in front of me. We collided! He stumbled one way and I stumbled the other and in the confusion, I dropped the calico bag. It was just as well. That way I only got punished for being out of bed."

Jeeves looked distinctly amused. "Did the punishment fit the crime?"

"If I'd still been at Marmsbury House, it would have been the frightful bare upper lip of Rev. Aubrey and six by whangee. As it was, I had to write out _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ fifty times. A bit steep for colliding with a teacher, if you ask me."

"The many men, so beautiful," Jeeves recited. "And they all dead did lie."

"And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did I." When you write lines out fifty times, you tend to memorise them against your will. Especially the bits about slimy things. They particularly appeal to boys of a certain age. "In fact, that was the only good thing about the rummy affair. Like those thousand slimy things, Caesar lived on. Like a Houdini of the first degree, he'd hopped away during the confusion and wasn't to be found."

On that note of qualified victory, we bade each other good night and headed to our respective beds.

The next night I had a dinner organised with Tuppy. Living at Brinkley Court has spoiled poor Tuppy. He was always a man who enjoyed his food -- who adored it more than anything save my cousin Angela, and I suspect that if he was forced to choose between them, his choice would rely very much upon the particular dish -- but after numerous stays with my Aunt Dahlia and that culinary mastermind, Anatole, other chefs have lost their ability to dazzle him. It wasn't that I blamed him for feeling the lack of Anatole's brand of gastronomic grandeur, but it seemed unfair to sit at the Drones club and complain about the fare.

He was only in London for a few days and one is obliged to be nice to the fiancé of one's dearest cousin, so that week saw me out at the club more often than I would have liked. Given the choice, I would have stayed confined to my flat with Jeeves' cooking and, hopefully, Jeeves' company but I did not have a choice in the matter. By Monday, I was more than a little relieved to see Tuppy off at the station.

I returned to the old house and hearth with a merry stride, but Jeeves wasn't there. I'd been hoping to lunch at home, but an absence of Jeeves meant an absence of food. If I went to the club I would be pulled into conversation and games, and while throwing cards into someone's topper may be an excellent way to pass a pleasant afternoon, I had been looking forward to propping my feet upon my table, reading a little and possibly catching Jeeves in a comfortable _tête-à-tête_.

I compromised and dined at a local tea house. It was a satisfactory episode but it took my all not to watch the clock ticking by. Dining alone is an odd thing. In the sanctity of one's own home, it is a comfortable, relaxed event and yet when dining alone in public, one always has the urge to bury one's head in a newspaper, like one of those big desert birds burying their noggin in the sand. I usually spend so much time trying to give that nonchalant air of dining alone out of choice that I can hardly appreciate the meal. It befuddles me that Bingo can stand to spend so much time alone in these places, but he probably spends more time enjoying the waitresses than the food.

It was not long before I was back in the flat, reading Diderot and waiting for Jeeves to return. It didn't take too long.

When Jeeves unlocked the front door, not even the rattle of a key could be heard. Trying rather hard to follow Diderot's point -- something about teaching blind people to read, which I'm fairly sure has already been done with bumpy paper, if I recall rightly -- I didn't notice Jeeves until he slipped past my chair.

"What ho, Jeeves."

"Good afternoon, sir," he said with a decorous nod. "I was under the impression that you and Mr Glossop were dining at the club today."

I shook my head. "Tuppy took the earlier train."

"Indeed, sir?"

"All it took was a little reminiscing over Anatole's _Consommé aux Pommes d'Amour_ , a little mention of the delays that sometimes happen with rail travel and the frightful notion of his train being delayed so long that he missed entrees for Tuppy to decide an earlier departure would be preferred."

"Ah."

"And what have you been up to, Jeeves? Enjoying the sunny weather and the thawing wind?"

"I called upon my niece, sir. I was not expecting you back so soon," Jeeves said and then levitated into the kitchen. It wasn't the most encouraging sign a chap could ask for.

He returned shortly with a drink on silver tray, which was precisely what I'd been longing for. Jeeves does have almost supernatural prescience when it comes to drinks. He can tell, almost before I can, whether I need a cup of tea in the morning or one of his famous restoratives. It's a darned useful talent to have, especially first thing when one is not at one's best. In fact, before my morning cup, I'm far from my best and have difficulty with the most basic concept of speech. I've been told that it's not unlike seeing Frankenstein's monster arise for the first time, groaning as he stumbles from the bed.

As I was saying, Jeeves returned with a welcome drink. Then he said something extremely peculiar. "Sir, will you be entertaining Mrs Gregson on Wednesday night? If so, I thought that we should discuss the menu."

"Have you been getting at my cooking sherry, Jeeves?"

"No, sir," Jeeves replied coldly.

"Unless you're fried to the tonsils, I don't see why you'd ask such a preposterous question. My Aunt Agatha is in Italy at the m., traipsing around museums and the like with Florence. How could I possibly entertain her?"

"I was given to understand that both ladies would be returning to London on Wednesday morning, sir."

I wondered for a brief moment if Jeeves' brain, usually such a hardworking fellow, had decided to take a short holiday in the land of insanity to take in the sights. I boggled at him. "Are you sure about the cooking sherry?"

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, I'm quite at a loss, Jeeves. You've been with me through thick and thin, and have frequently played the cavalry in my hour of need. I thought that we shared an understanding."

"Indeed, sir?"

"There are certain females of whom one would not speak ill, as to do so would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette, but who nonetheless are less than welcome in the Wooster homestead. First and foremost on that list is my Aunt Agatha," I said, holding up a hand and counting names off on my fingers, "and coming a close second is Florence Craye. Followed, for good reason, by Madeleine Basset and Honoria Glossop."

"Yes, sir."

Clearly, I had not been firm enough on this issue in the past. I set out to explain the situation to Jeeves. "Now, while they may individually all have their merits and one is obliged to make polite conversation with them at parties, they are not in any circumstances to be invited into my flat. Especially not two at a time, and you well know there is no way the laws of hospitality would allow me to invite Aunt Agatha for dinner and not also invite her travelling companion."

"Yes, sir."

"Can you imagine it?" I shuddered, picturing the scene. On my right, I would have Aunt Agatha calling me a jelly and asking if I intended to be a wastrel for the rest of my life; on the other, Florence would expound the value of an honest day's work and the importance of toil to improve the spirit and mind. Those readers familiar with my Aunt Agatha will know that she could make any self-respecting, horrifying ghoul give a terrified scream and flee in terror; since Aunt Agatha married Florence's father, Florence has started to show a striking similarity to my foreboding aunt. "It would be the eighth circle of hell, Jeeves, the one that lucky Dante chap managed to avoid. I would have nowhere to hide and the pair of them would spend the night examining how I failed to meet expectations."

"Perhaps you could discuss Diderot and your new-found interest in his theories, sir?"

I looked askance at Jeeves, but he looked every inch the respectable manservant. There was not a hint of that suggestion being a joke.

"Jeeves, simply because one has decided to try to broaden one's mental horizons and has read a dead Frenchman's beliefs that one should not shy away from adversity and trials for it enriches one's entire sense of self, does not mean that I intend to seek out adversities and encourage horrendous trials under my own roof. After all," I said, playing on Jeeves' sympathy as a last resort, "you read the same such intellectual fare and you don't see me commanding you to spend time with the more frightening of the fairer sex."

There was a certain twinkle in Jeeves' eye that told me I had hit the right tone.

"Yes, sir," he said, and then shimmied off to the mail tray. He returned with an opened telegraph envelope. "This came for you this morning from Mrs Gregson."

I stared at the ghastly thing but couldn't bring myself to touch it. "From Aunt Agatha? It wouldn't, by any chance, be an order to give her and Florence dinner on Wednesday night?"

"It is precisely that, sir."

"Egads, Jeeves."

"Quite, sir."

"Do you think there's any chance I could come down with a deadly and contagious illness by Wednesday? Better make it Tuesday, just to be safe."

"That sounds unlikely, sir."

"What about a riding accident, Jeeves? Fellows have them all the time. Those riding types are constantly falling off a horse and biffing into comas for a week or so."

"I fear that might not be in your best interest, sir."

"Why not? A mild dose of unconsciousness would be vastly preferable to that dinner."

"Be that as it may, sir, I doubt that either Mrs Gregson or Miss Craye would consider your inability to reply a hindrance to the conversation. I would go so far as to say that they are precisely the type of informed female to believe in the healing powers of keeping the mind alert. There is a more than likely chance that, believing so, they would sit vigil by your bedside and continue to converse."

I groaned, and hid my head in my hands. "It is hopeless, Jeeves. My flat -- formerly known as a comforting, cosy place to rest upon one's laurels -- will now become a prison of unpleasant company."

Of all Jeeves' abilities, by far his most outstanding is the way in which he can bring the gleaming taper's light of hope to the darkest pits of despair. It may start with a discreet cough or a mere "If I may suggest, sir," but sure enough the idea that follows will be a ripe one, filled to the brim with ingenuity that would inspire the angels themselves.

"If I may suggest, sir," Jeeves said, making my stomach flip and my heart flop -- or possibly vice versa -- as I awaited the words that would save me, "perhaps it may be advisable to visit Brinkley Court for the week. It is doubtful that Mrs Gregson would stray so far from her planned travel route simply to pursue a meal with you."

"And a week of Anatole's cooking would certainly compensate for the scare of this afternoon," I added, quite pleased with Jeeves' suggestion. "But, Jeeves, what of the telegram?"

"I shall send a reply to Mrs Gregson, sir, explaining that you had already left the city when her message arrived, and therefore will not be able to comply." Jeeves stood there like the strongest anchor ever to weather storms and tides. "With your permission, I will also send a telegram to Mrs Travers, advising her of your imminent arrival. If you left immediately, you could be there in time for dinner, sir."

I sprang from my armchair. Such a near escape from disaster demands an ovation of the standing variety. "Once again, Jeeves, you have proved the foremost marvel of the modern world. How long will it take to pack for the merry trip?"

"Your suitcases are already in the two-seater, sir."

As I'd said, Jeeves was a marvel. "And those telegrams?"

"Already sent, sir."

I gave Jeeves a firm look. "Then why ask on the subject of Aunt Agatha and Florence dining with me? You could have saved an imagined night of horror and simply told me I needed to chuff off to the better of two aunts."

Jeeves pulled himself up to his full height, which would impress a sterner man than I. There are times when the family resemblance between Jeeves and his Uncle Charlie is quite apparent; said Uncle Charlie being, of course, the butler Silversmith at Deverill Hall and one of that rare breed of butlers who exudes the type of dignity and authority that would have Prime Ministers and princes swallowing nervously, tugging at their collars, and hoping that they remembered their manners. This was one of those times.

"One does not wish to presume, sir."

"Very well, very well, Jeeves. I meant nothing by it," I said by way of apology. To complain so ungracefully after such a revelation was peering a gift horse in the mouth and threatening to return it when the equine shoots you a shifty look. "I simply wish it to be known that in future, if the prospect of a visiting aunt should raise its ugly head, you have my full permission to take whatever steps you deem necessary to protect the young master from enduring such a trial. I assure you that the effort will be appreciated and give great satisfaction."

"Duly noted, sir," Jeeves said, his tone thawing once more to a warm tone of respect.

The journey to Brinkley Court had a chummy, carefree air. When travelling with any half decent egg, whether a close chum or a vague acquaintance, the act of roving forms a temporary bond of friendship between the two of you. Whether by car, ship or train, you have sat in the same seats for the same hours and seen the same sights. When reading a novel becomes unfeasible, this bond will assert itself and demand conversation to pass the time. So it was with Jeeves and me. A few casual comments about the weather led to this and that, and without quite knowing how, we drifted yet again to the topic of boyhood.

"I can't imagine you getting into trouble as a whelp, Jeeves." I found myself watching the careful way Jeeves' hands gripped the steering wheel, turning ever so slightly as the road curved. If we had not been talking, I'm sure my mind would have fixated quite inappropriately on those fingers. "I am sure you must have been a serious, sensible child, never caught breaking a rule."

"It's true that I was never caught breaking a rule, sir." From the glimmer in his eye, I realised my original estimation had been wrong. Probably, even as a juvenile Jeeves, he had still been smarter than most of those around him. "And you, sir? Would you have described yourself as a troublesome child?"

"I was in trouble a great deal, so I'm forced to say yes." I pulled my gaze away from Jeeves' hands. "Boys at school always feel so overlooked, so lost amongst the barbarian hordes of uniformed pupils. It's not uncommon for them to long for their House Master to merely know their surname. My House Master knew my sur-, first and middle name. It was unfortunately common to hear him bellow 'Bertram Wilberforce Wooster' down the halls and threaten to use a riding crop on anyone who assisted my attempts to escape justice."

Jeeves raised an eyebrow. "The pertinent issue would be whether the punishments were just."

"I would like to say not and that I was unfairly persecuted for no apparent reason, but honesty forbids. Four times out of five I'd done the deed in question, either as the outcome of a dare or my own bad judgement when helping a pal in dire straits."

"And the other time out of five?"

"The code of the Woosters does not allow one to turn around and deliver a friend into the hands of the authorities, Jeeves. One can plead one's innocence, of course, but without pointing to the guilty party, teachers find it hard to believe the word of a boy renowned for being where he shouldn't and doing what he's been expressly told not to." I shrugged, trying to indicate by my nonchalant behaviour how little can be done in such a situation. "Other times, taking the blame was itself a way of helping a chum."   
"I am not convinced that taking responsibilities for another's actions could be considered helping them, sir. Logical consequences are the scarecrows of fools and the beacons of wise men."

"Shakespeare?"

"Thomas Huxley, sir."

I had no idea who Thomas Huxley was but I did not say as much. "What you must understand, Jeeves, is that one of the first threats for a medium infraction is to retain students on school grounds over the holidays. For me, a boy who spent his holidays with aunts and uncles -- a week at Aunt Dahlia's, a few days with Uncle Willoughby, the remaining time at Aunt Agatha's -- the threat was not very great. I would go so far as to say the prospect of avoiding a Christmas spent with my Aunt Agatha was positive encouragement and adding the benefit that another chap could go home to loving parents and siblings made it all the merrier."

Jeeves fell silent. I assumed he had grown weary of the constant chatter and prepared myself for a quiet journey from here on. Even travelling companions can grow quite sick of the mundane details of another's past years but after a moment, the quietude was broken. "I doubt your aunts were pleased by that, sir."

"Very little pleases aunts, Jeeves," I replied and the conversation moved to Jeeves' Aunt Mildred and how she met his Uncle Charlie. It was quite the story of below-stairs romance and went as so:

Aunt Mildred, or Millie as she had been known, was working as a kitchen maid at a place up north called Hillcrest House when the family's eldest son returned from the Indies. As this is not one of Rosie M. Banks' stories, the eldest son was not dashing and impressive and used to charming sweet-natured maids, but a boring, bookish type interested in figures. His valet, however, was another story.

Where the master was bookish and insipid, his valet was tall and striking, a man of strict manners and mysterious appeal.

"Your Uncle Charlie?" I asked disbelievingly.

"Certainly, sir."

"He makes a strong impression, no doubt, but it's hard to imagine him as a romantic lead of the stiff, silent mould."

"This was before the mellowing warmth of wife and children softened his natural personality, sir."

I gawked, possibly with my mouth open. I well remembered the last time I'd stayed at Deverill Hall and had Uncle Charlie announce me not unlike an Emperor proclaiming feeding time for the lions. If that was him softened, his natural personality must be capable of cutting diamonds.

"My Aunt Mildred despaired of gaining his attention, until she overheard him discussing the local fauna with the groundskeeper."

"He was interested in plants?"

"I believe you are thinking of the word flora, sir, of or pertaining to the plant life in a particular region. No, my uncle was interested in the local wildlife, particularly the avian members of the grounds."

I got the message. "The chap was a birdwatcher."

Jeeves nodded and continued with the tale. The gist was that Millie, upon realising where his interests lay, used her next day off to purchase one of those big books that list birds under their scientific name and natural habitat with large coloured pictures. She studied the breeds most likely to be current visitors and then took to walking amongst the grounds, looking for nests.

After several nights of careful searching, she found a nest of nightingales and promptly shared her find with Charlie. Nightingales being quite rare in the north, the fellow, as you could imagine, was well pleased and asked her to show it to him. For the following weeks, the two were thick as thieves, walking after dinner to see the proud parents hatch their little flock.

They were finally brought together by one of the fledglings falling from the nest. Millie caught the poor thing, and Charlie gallantly offered to return it to its siblings. Despite his fear of heights, he shimmied up the tree with the fragile thing cradled close to his chest.

When he returned to the ground after this daring feat, the chap decided to be bold and brave, and dropped to one knee to courteously swear his undying affection and ask for her hand.

"As one could expect, my Aunt Mildred was delighted and agreed immediately. A year later, after they were married, she sought out that nest again and found that it hadn't been a nightingale at all. It was actually a relatively common _erithacus rubecula_."

"A European robin," I supplied and Jeeves raised a noble brow. "My cousin Bonzo was batty about birds a few years back. Claimed Brinkley Court hosted a rare breed of owl but I suspect bird watching was just an excuse he used when caught sneaking out at night. Surely an avid birdwatcher like your Uncle Charlie would have noticed, though."

"He had, sir. He had kept up the pretence merely as a way of spending time with my Aunt Mildred."

"Clever fellow," I said, and meant every word.

The conversation lulled and I watched the green countryside pass by, distracted by my own thoughts. The retreat to Aunt Dahlia's was a necessary one but I had my doubts as to how much the change of scenery would help my plans. On one hand, it was so seeped in romantic atmosphere that its grounds must have seen at least a dozen proposals in the last handful of years. A third of those engagements had been to myself, so I knew that I held a good track record when it came to twilight walks and idle conversation amongst rose gardens.

On the other hand, Brinkley Court is a great house and holds the according numbers of domestic staff. Domestic staff are much like wasps: though you may only see one or two buzzing around, if you follow them back to the nest, you invariably find more than you expect. In a house like Brinkley, with footmen, butlers, chefs and maids, there was bound to be a cheery servants' hall -- I assume they are cheery, as I've never actually been in one -- where Jeeves could spend his idle hours.

When we are both at home in the metrop., there are a limited number of rooms for the two of us to inhabit, leaving a stronger reason to spend time in the same room. When I visit in the country, Jeeves has a tendency to ... I'm not sure how to phrase it. I could not say he abandons me, for he always appears when I need him, but he does not hover in the same way. Between that cheery servants' hall and the layout of great houses, which often beds families as far from the servants' quarters as possible, I could see my careful plan of slow acclimatisation through proximity going up in smoke.

And then there was the utterly dismal prospect of romantic grounds and a cheery servants' hall possessing an attractive maid or a comely footman and Jeeves getting swept up by the wrong party. The thought was disheartening, to say the least. I possibly sighed.

For a moment, the upcoming week in the country looked completely lacking in the hope department. But faint heart has never won fair lady and stygian gloom forlorn goes quite against the spirit of the Woosters. We Woosters take pride in maintaining a positive outlook on a bleak situation. We are staunch and stalwart in the face of overwhelming odds, and if any maid or footman wanted to try running off with my valet, they would find that Bertram Wooster was not so easy to scare away.

All I needed was a scheme as clever as old Aunt Millie's. Settling my hat over my eyes, I leaned back and worked up the old grey matter.

When I woke up, Jeeves was pulling into Brinkley Court.

We were greeted at the door by Tuppy, waving heartily and bellowing out, "Good show, Bertie!"

"Thank you," I said, not having a clue what he was on about. I clambered out of the car and walked over to him, waving at Jeeves to take the car round and unpack suitcases and do whatever other things miraculous valets do.

"A telegraph would have done but you coming down in person is really showing the old school spirit."

"Well, you know how much respect I have for the old school spirit," I replied, thinking cheerfully of our days in Eton collars. "But I think you need to explain the situation to me, Tuppy."

Tuppy's broad face darkened. "Didn't you come down to explain certain facts to your fatheaded cousin?"

"I thought Claude and Eustace were still over in France." My twin cousins had gone there to soak in the continental atmosphere and to escape Aunt Agatha after that incident involving lace doilies, two helium balloons and Aunt A.'s dog, Macintosh. By now, they must have absorbed so much Parisian air that they'd each be the size of zeppelins. "When did they get back?"

"Claude and Eustace are still in Paris, as far as I know. I was talking about Angela."

"Tut," I said, defending her strongly.

"Oh, I like that," he said, showing clearly by his tone and expression that he did not, in fact, like it one bit. "Here I am, old school chum, and you automatically take the girl's side. Where's the school spirit? Where's the loyalty?"

"The loyalty lies with my favourite cousin."

"Pish posh. How many years have you known me, Bertie? For how long have we been friends?"

"I do not deny the years of friendship, it is simply that Angela has been my cousin for longer and, to be quite plain, for a generally good egg, Tuppy, you do have the amazing ability to be insensitive to a girl's finer feelings. One could almost call it brutish."

Tuppy is one of those active types, always eager for a game of cricket or rugby in the right season, and a generally decent crumpet, but he seems to have almost no understanding of how a woman's mind works or how she will take offence to being told her new hat makes her look like a Pekinese. Not a great character flaw in the wide scheme of things but it did land him in the soup with Angela from time to time.

"What happened, Tuppy? When you came to London you were in fine spirits, good company to one and all, and speaking of Angela as sweet-natured girl that she is. Now you are saying her name in a deeply insulting way and I cannot understand how you could go from one to the other so swiftly." He glared at me in quite an obstinate manner, so I added, "Why did you think I'd come here?"

"I sent you a telegram," he said sullenly.

"From London?"

"From Worcestershire."

"After you got off the train, Tuppy?"

"Straight after. Well, after I'd had a cup of tea and some lunch from the larder, of course."

"Of course," I said, nodding. "So, to succinctly summarise the events, I saw you off in London this morning, you got to Brinkley Court, had something to eat, sent me a telegram and I arrived an hour or so after you'd sent it?"

Tuppy saw the flaw in his timing. "You didn't get my telegram?"

"Since Jeeves is still constrained by the laws of the universe and can't induce my car to go at three hundred miles an hour, I believe that is the only logical conclusion."

"Then why are you here, Bertie?"

"I'm escaping my Aunt Agatha," I confessed and Tuppy shuddered. Amongst the Drones, the shrill banshee call of an intimidating aunt is well known and my Aunt Agatha is known as one of the worst. "Your telegram must have arrived after we high-tailed it to the country."

"Then you don't understand my predicament, Bertie. If you did, you'd sympathise and call Angela a blighter as well."

"I doubt I'd use that precise wording but if you explain the situation, I can promise my sympathy."

Tuppy turned and looked out towards the road, much like that chap Ulysses: a grey spirit yearning in desire, wanting to follow sinking stars and something else. "Angela, the little squirt, is being completely unreasonable."

"How so?"

"She has decided she wants to improve her tennis game." I mulled this one over for a bit. "I don't quite follow you, old bean. I fail to see the dire results of trying to hit a tennis ball with a racquet."

"You haven't seen her coach, Facet. He's nothing short of a Teutonic Adonis, Bertie, and when they are not on the court, the pair of them wander the gardens and talk in French, twittering in a thoroughly indecent manner. Now do you see?"

"I do, Tuppy."

"You know what those gardens are like."

"I do, Tuppy." In fact, I'd been planning on using those very gardens to my own advantage. "But Angela isn't the type to two-time you. I'm sure that if you mentioned it to her she would understand and spend less time around the bird."

"I have mentioned it to her. I was quite clear on the matter." From his jutting chin and puffed cheeks, I could see it had led to an argument. "Do you know what she said to me, Bertie? She implied that I had visited London solely to sweet-talk a pretty waitress! Me! Can you imagine it?"

If it had been Bingo Little, I could have imagined it all too quickly but Tuppy, as I've said, was a decent chap. He'd no more flirt with another girl than Jeeves would wear a red evening coat. "Where would she get that idea from?"

"She said that a friend of hers had seen me stop every afternoon in that tea shop, the one round the corner from your flat."

"You did stop every afternoon at that tea shop."

"Only for their cake! It had nothing to do with the girl serving it."

"You know how girls are about this sort of thing. One girl thinks she sees something, and she tells another, and that girl tells another, and by the time it got to Angela, the story must have been vastly exaggerated. All she needs is the sensible word of her trustworthy cousin to put her right." I placed a comforting hand on Tuppy's shoulder. "I'll talk to her after dinner and sort the whole thing out."

"That was why I telegrammed you." Tuppy appeared suitably reassured. "If she won't listen to reason, at least she'll listen to family."

I was a little insulted by that, and pulled my hand back. "I'm sure all will be well in the morning."

"Since you and Jeeves are here, I'm sure you manage to get that blasted Facet fired," he said, and went inside.

Passing Seppings, who informed me that Angela and Aunt Dahlia were dressing for dinner, I went up to my usual room and found that Jeeves had already prepared my evening wear and turned over the horrible picture of Uncle Tom that glares down over the mantelpiece. I've complained about this monstrosity to Aunt Dahlia but she continues to place me in the same room, showing a complete disregard for one of her least-disliked nephews.

"Jeeves," I said, pulling off jacket and shirt, and wiping away some of the grime of travel. I would have preferred a hot bath after such a trip, but it would have to wait until later. "You haven't happened to hear anything about Angela and this new tennis coach, have you?"

"Not a great deal, sir. Only that Miss Angela and Mr Glossop were overheard arguing over M Facet's recent employment."

"Have you seen him?" I asked, pulling off shoes, socks and trousers. "Facet, I mean."

"Briefly, sir."

"Tuppy described him as a Teutonic Adonis."

"I would consider that an inaccurate description, sir."

That put my fears to rest. A chap never likes another chap horning in on his girl, but if the second chap happens to be more dapper and good-looking than the first, it can end badly for the first chap (the one less dapper and good-looking, I mean). It was best to learn as much as I could. "In what way was it inaccurate, Jeeves?"

"The young man is from French stock, sir. I believe he is a cousin of Anatole's, so describing him as Teutonic and implying that his looks or ancestors were Germanic would be quite incorrect."

My previous fears rose from their grave, much like Count Orlock in that German film. Now there was a character who Jeeves could have comfortably called Teutonic. "I'm more interested in the Adonis side of things, Jeeves. Was that inaccurate?"

"No, sir. The young man has an athletic build, open smile and clear brown eyes. In appearance, he bears a marked similarity to the surrealist, René Crevel."

"He paints odd pictures, you mean?"

"I mean that he is a highly attractive young man, who has been spending a great deal of time with Miss Angela. If Miss Angela were unattached and not so devoted to Mr Glossop, one could quite clearly see the allure that he, M Facet, might hold over her."

This gave me quite a chill down the spine. It's one thing to hear a friend complain about a handsome rival; it's quite another to hear one's own valet sum the fellow up in terms that almost include the word 'dreamboat'.

Trying not to sound pipped, I said, "Tuppy wants him fired."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Do you think you could do it, Jeeves?"

Jeeves paused, pursing his lips slightly as he considered all aspects. "I doubt it would be the best possible solution to the situation, sir. As I mentioned, the young man is a relation of Anatole's, so engineering his unearned dismissal might result in a certain level of hurt feelings amongst the kitchen staff."

"And Anatole may threaten to leave, which would make Aunt Dahlia, despite the bonds of blood and bone, downright miffed. If she found we were behind it, she'd ban Tuppy and me from Brinkley Court until a week after Judgement Day."

In case I forgot to mention, because one can never be sure of how much one has neglected to mention about familiar names, Anatole was a chef of the highest order. Not only skilled with savoury and sweet dishes alike and masterful at both solid English recipes and delicate French ones, he had also managed the singular feat of combating and overcoming Uncle Tom's bad digestion. Without Anatole, Uncle Tom lost the will to live, Aunt Dahlia lost a source of support for her ladies' paper, and every visitor to Brinkley Court lost the opportunity of eating the finest meal they had ever had the good fortune to experience.

If Anatole left or felt sorely put off his stride by this business with the tennis coach, the mob would be baying for the blood of one Bertram W. Wooster.

"No, Jeeves, you are quite right. As always, you have seen the whole while the rest of us have difficulty finding the sum of the parts." I pulled my waistcoat on and started on the buttons. "But something must be done about this Tuppy-Angela business. I don't like to see them quarrel."

"I shall give the matter some thought, sir."

"I'm going to talk to Angela after dinner, see if I can't convince her that Tuppy means well even if, in matters of the heart, he tends to stamp where one should tread lightly," I said.

Jeeves helped me into my dinner jacket, and I suddenly remembered my other problem, _vis-à-vis_ what to do about Jeeves. If some poor imitation of René Crevel -- whatever he may look like -- was skulking around the premises, turning heads and stealing hearts, it was more important than ever that I ensure that the only one taking moonlit walks with Jeeves through fragrant rose gardens was yours truly.

As so often happens, things that seem quite unthinkable in the metaphorical light of day are astoundingly easy after a good night's sleep. The experts say this has something to do with the subconscious mind ticking over as one dozes, and while I've never met a subconscious mind and wouldn't know what one looked like if I did, I'm prepared to take their word for it. The subconscious Bertie had come up with a corker.

"Tell me, Jeeves, did you ever go bird watching as a child? With your Uncle Charlie, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you like it much?"

"It remains one of my fondest memories of childhood. To a child's sensibilities, wandering out of doors on a summer evening and watching birds call merrily to one another can be an enchanting experience, sir."

"I never saw the appeal as a boy. Seemed quite pointless," I said, before remembering that such an opinion would circumvent my intended destination, "but since talking about it this afternoon, I've decided to give it a try."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Bonzo swears there's a family of Long-eared Owls on the premises, so I thought I might go for a walk after dinner and look for myself. Of course, the first difficulty is that I've never gone bird watching before, so I'm not sure precisely how one does it. I assume it's mainly a case of wandering around the outdoors and watching for flying things, but that brings me to my second issue. If I've never seen a Long-eared Owl, how would I know if I do spot one?"

"The Long-eared Owl, technically known as _Asio otus_ , has quite a distinctive appearance, sir. It is a medium-sized brown bird with vivid orange eyes and dark markings down the centre of its face. It takes its name from the ear tufts, which are feathers that stick up from the head and look much like short horns or an upright pair of dog's ears."

If it had not been Jeeves, full of knowledge like that Author in that Watering-Place poem, I would have been sure he was pulling a prank. Most birds do not have burning eyes and horns on top of their heads, not unless the bird in question has come from some frightful Renaissance painting of Hell.

"That sounds like quite a remarkable bird, Jeeves," I said, as Jeeves finished fixing my black tie, "but I think I would have a much greater chance of success with an experienced birdwatcher beside me."

"That is true, sir, but I doubt my Uncle Charlie would be able to assist."

I fixed Jeeves with an unwavering glance. "I had been thinking of you, Jeeves, not your Uncle Charlie."

"In that case, sir, it would be much easier to arrange."

"What about tonight? Say around nine o'clock? Oh no, wait, I have to speak to Angela. Perhaps we could meet at nine-thirty, in the southern end of the rose garden?"

My heart did a tremulous tango beneath my jacket and I fell into that time-honoured cliché of holding one's breath while awaiting the answer.

Meanwhile Jeeves looked nothing but self-possessed. "Very good, sir."

Having finished with my tie, and satisfied with my general appearance, Jeeves stepped back and I headed down to dinner.

Dinner was a fine event, blessed with a cosy atmosphere since only the five of us were dining. Uncle Tom had recently been paid dividends from some share scheme, and the latest serial on _Milady's Boudoir_ had recouped its cost, so both my aunt and uncle were in top spirits. I was in good cheer, thinking of my near escape from Aunt Agatha and Anatole, for his part, had done an outstanding job on the _Benedictins Blancs_. Even Angela and Tuppy seemed in a good mood although I noticed that they weren't speaking directly to each other.

Still, it was a lively night. The conversation focused on what had been happening in London, on news from common acquaintances and on details of the last few weeks since I'd been at Brinkley Court. In short, it was the average conversation that one has on a first night of visiting, when recent events are unknown and all of one's stories are new and fresh.

When the last of the dishes were cleared away and the ladies left for the drawing room, I followed and took Angela by the arm. "Care to take a quick stroll outside with me, Angela, old girl?"

"Certainly, Bertie, darling," she said, and we made our way outside. "How was the trip up?"

"Oh, good, good. I drove for an hour or so, and Jeeves drove the rest of the way. Exceedingly good weather for it."

We talked on the state of the current weather and the condition of the roads and then she brought up the topic of the last time she had been to the metrop., and I thought it a good time to wander to the subject of Tuppy and waitresses.

"Talking of London," I said, easing into it, "Tuppy and I spent a great deal of time together when he was up. Barely a day went by when we didn't see each other."

I did not, of course, mention that I begrudged spending those hours away from the flat and far from Jeeves' steady gaze but I did go on to say, "But when I came Tuppy said he'd fallen out with you. I don't understand it."

She sighed, the sound as lonely as a winter wind stirring across the moors of Wales. "Tuppy is being completely unreasonable."

"He said the same thing about you, old thing. Claimed you'd been flattered and swept off your feet by a French Casanova."

"Oh, Bertie," she said, settling on one of the rustic benches, "that's quite unfair. Guillaume is nothing of the sort."

This was not good tidings. "Guillaume Facet, is it? Couldn't the fellow be cursed with a name like Wilberforce, something completely unappealing? It seems unfair that he should have a name like Guillaume. Gives him an automatic advantage when it comes to girls."

"Bertie, darling, his advantage has nothing to do with his name. He's the sweetest chap, really."

I gave her a firm glance. "Are you sweet on him, cousin of mine? I was quite certain that Tuppy's fears were unfounded, that it was merely the feverish worries of a man in love, but to hear you speak of him like this makes me worry."

"I'm as dippy over Tuppy as I've ever been, Bertie."

"Then why accuse him of flirting with waitresses? You know full well that Tuppy only has eyes for you." This was almost true. In the past, when Tuppy's head had been momentarily turned by another girl, it hadn't taken Jeeves long to ensure it swung back to the approved direction. "I will not deny that we stopped in at one particular tea shop frequently, but you must know that it had everything to do with their chocolate cake and nothing to do with their waitresses."

"I know that, darling," she said, ever one of those young girls to throw the word 'darling' around the place as if it were a perfect substitute for a person's name.

"Then why accuse him?"

"I didn't. I said that I did not walk around accusing him of flirting with waitresses, no matter how many hours he spent in one particular tea shop. My point, if he had listened, is that I know that his heart is faithful to me. I don't need to be by his side every moment to ensure that he doesn't fall for another girl."

"Indeed?"

"Truly, Bertie. I don't complain when he goes to London for a week and I don't demand that he avoid anywhere with an attractive girl. So it's utterly unfair that he should throw his weight around about Guillaume and suggest that I let him go." Shaking her head, she tutted like a disapproving headmistress. "I am keeping Guillaume as my tennis coach, and Tuppy, the big balloon, will not change my mind on it."

"Angela," I said as pleasantly as I knew how, "surely you could bend just a little on this? Prove to Tuppy once and for all how much you care, and give up the Frenchman. To say it plainly, you do not need him."

"But I do."

"Your game of tennis is perfectly fine." I had seen Angela play tennis and had occasionally played against her in the name of cousinship and camaraderie. "You have no need to improve it."

"I do, Bertie, and by this Saturday." Angela pulled her arms around her, more in response to the chill wind than the harrowing tale so I passed her my jacket and tucked it round her shoulders. "Thank you, Bertie."

I sensed that we had arrived at the heart of the matter. "Tell me more, old girl."

"It all started last time I visited Totleigh Towers with Tuppy. He went down to the village and I was talking with Honoria. We'd played a match of tennis that morning and I had played extremely badly, and she insisted on being far too nice about the whole thing. It got on my nerves."

"The trick to being a good winner is normally to be a quiet one. Too much sympathy reeks of bad sportsmanship."

"Precisely, Bertie. So she said one thing, and I said another, and it all got quite heated. There were some wild words said and then we settled on a wager."

My brows shot upwards, like stars madly moving from their spheres to hear a sea-maid's song.

"You look surprised," Angela said.

"I am. I didn't think girls said wild words to one another. I thought it was all drawing room talk, common friends and new engagements and that type of thing."

"That's very small-minded of you, Bertie. I always thought you far more modern in your thoughts."

"Modern or not, there is no need to go wagering with a Glossop. It will not end well." I was tempted to tell her of the time Tuppy had bet that I could not swing myself across the swimming bath using the rings, then cheated dreadfully at the last minute by looping back the last ring, forcing me to fall into the deep end in full evening wear. But these are not the details to spill to a fiancée of a close friend.

"I take it you have seen Honoria play?"

"She is the sportiest girl I've ever known. Tell me, Angela, what were the terms of the bet?"

"The next time she visits, which is this Saturday, we are to play again for higher stakes." Her hand went to her neck, and toyed with the silver chain there. "In the heat of the moment, I bet my necklace."

"Oh, Angela," I said, knowing the details of the necklace. It is a silver chain with a small heart-shaped pendant attached, the type designed for a small photograph or lock of hair to be inserted. When Tuppy was first courting Angela, before he had asked for her hand, she had commented on it as they passed a jeweller's shop, and he, sensing the advantage, went back later and bought it for her. She had crowed about the gift for weeks. "Not the necklace Tuppy gave you. He'll take that very hard."

"I know, but once the words were said I couldn't very well back down, now could I? It would have been far too humiliating."

I leaned an arm against a statue -- it was of a boy about twelve summers old with wings and a bow -- then found the statue wasn't safely mired and had to grab the thing before it toppled. Once the young chap was upright and setting his sights on one of Uncle Tom's prized rosebushes, I gave Angela my honest opinion. "This Facet would need to be a miracle worker to improve your game by Saturday."

"He is, Bertie." Her eyes lit up, much as King Arthur's must have when he first spotted the Holy Grail. She had clearly placed her faith in this Adonis. "You should see the improvement in my backhand swing. I'm sure that if I continue to practise hard I'll beat her. I simply need Tuppy to stop being such a jealous Neanderthal about the whole thing."

"The matter seems quite simple to me. Simply tell Tuppy why you need the tennis coach and all will be roses again."

The light left her eyes completely. "I can't. You can't tell a fellow that you used the first love gift he gave you in a bet. Against his cousin, no less. He will simply have to bear it until Saturday."

I saw her point. "But Angela, Tuppy wants Facet to be fired. He was quite empathetic about it."

"Bertie, darling, you can't let that happen. Without Guillaume I shall lose the match, the necklace and Tuppy may break off the whole engagement. Promise me you'll stop it from happening, Bertie?"

Well, one can't very well be a _preux chevalier_ and then go around telling damsels in distress that you will not help. It was clear that my cousin Angela was as distressed as any damsel of old. "I promise, Angela. Jeeves and I will find a way."

She made a noise of glee and pressed a kiss to my cheek as she stood up. "I knew I could count on you, Bertie," she said, giving me my jacket back. I pulled it on quickly, in deference to the chill wind that had been blowing straight through my shirtsleeves, and, giving me one more reassuring smile, Angela headed inside.

I went straight to the rose garden and laid the matter out for Jeeves.

"A most complicated situation, sir."

"Quite right, Jeeves. Angela has to play due to a bet she can't tell Tuppy about and Tuppy wants the sole source of her hope to be fired. As I said to Angela, he was quite empathetic about it."

"I believe the word that you meant to say is emphatic, sir."

"To be quite forceful about it? To be certain?"

"Yes, sir. To say that he was empathetic would suggest that he understood Miss Angela's position and was sensitive to her reasoning."

"Tuppy is anything but that," I said, filing away Jeeves' points for future reference. I must admit there are time when I wonder if Jeeves' idea of a good time is committing the dictionary to memory, but it is good to know when one is, and is not, using a word correctly. "I still think this is a simple matter to be solved. All it would take is a little honesty."

"Indeed, sir?" he asked in that wary way of his.

"Indeed," I said, slipping my hands into my pockets and settling in to enjoy the stroll. There is something very pleasant about a nice walk at night. Moonlight, known to be flattering to nearly every complexion, has the ability to hide most physical defects such as scrawny shoulders or a beakish nose, and it lends an atmosphere of intimacy to the arrangement. One can easily walk and talk for an hour or more without that feeling of goofiness that comes from walking with someone in daylight, wondering how they see you and which of your flaws they think are the worst. I have always advised chaps of the wisdom of taking a girl for a moonlit wander and I stand by that advice.

"May I enquire as to your reasoning, sir?"

"It is this, Jeeves. Honestly is like pepper: a little bit can go a long way. In this situation, I believe I could safely tell Tuppy about Angela's reasoning without telling him everything."

"You intend to tell him of the competitive nature of the games between his cousin and Miss Angela without telling him the stakes of their wager, sir?"

As I have said far and wide, Jeeves is a brainy cove. Most of the Drones fellows would have needed footnotes to understand my meaning. "Quite, Jeeves."

"Are you sure," Jeeves said carefully, "that Mr Glossop will understand and encourage this rivalry between two women that he cares for?"

"I am sure, Jeeves, and this is where being an old school chum of Tuppy's gives us the advantage. I know him as a man and I knew him as a boy so I can state quite confidently that Tuppy will support any scheme that sees his cousin fairly beaten at tennis." Jeeves raised an eyebrow, and I continued. "As a child, he used to play tennis with Honoria every holiday and every holiday, as sure as the sun sets to rise again, Honoria would beat him. Being beaten by an older cousin is bad enough, but when you are beaten by a girl a year younger than you, it tends to eat away at a chap. The more he tried to beat her, the less he succeeded."

"Does he still play against Miss Glossop, sir?"

"Of course not. When one has become a man, one does not wish to use the unfair advantage of brain and brawn to lord it over the fairer sex."

"I hesitate to note that you still play against Miss Angela, sir."

"That is an entirely different matter, Jeeves. I am well aware that in all likelihood Angela will beat me and, unlike Tuppy, I don't spend the next three hours belittling her triumph. Besides, Angela is a favourite cousin, far closer to me than any other living relative so you have no cause to peer down in judgment from beneath that bowler hat. When a girl has protected you from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, playing tennis with her for amusement and happily letting her win is in the correct spirit of things."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed. She has been known on no less than four separate occasions to help me hide from Aunt Agatha during family gatherings. If that is not showing the height of familial love, I don't know what is."

"That is a strong sign of affection, sir."

"Exactly, Jeeves. I am quite convinced that if I tell Tuppy of the upcoming tennis match and gently explain to him that it has become a matter of pride between the two girls, he will understand and support Angela's quest for victory."

"Very good, sir."

Having said that, silence reined over the tranquil hour of night. The stars were bright overhead, and I briefly thought about Madeleine Basset and her theory of the stars being God's daisy chain. She was such an awful gawd-help-us, and yet she'd happily found a most unlikely kindred spirit and was all set to say the I do's.

Angela and Tuppy, both good sorts, would be in the same place, if not for a small matter of a bet and some idle jealousy. "It's a funny thing, isn't it?"

"What is, sir?"

"Marriage, Jeeves. The chaps you do expect to tie the knot and the chaps you don't all seem to have the same amount of trouble getting down the altar. It's enough to put one off completely."

Jeeves, hands resting behind his back as we walked, looked like a particularly thoughtful type of soldier, keeping constant vigil against the stars and flat horizon. "It has been said that marriage is a desperate thing, sir."

"But what about that marriage of true minds business? Not altering or admitting impediment? When I was a boy, I thought that was how love would be."

Jeeves glanced at me as we strolled, the moonlight softening his features and accentuating the contrast between pale collar and dark hair. In that light, from that angle, there was a certain quality to him that made one think of movie stars and other glamorous, untouchable paragons. "Indeed?"

"I thought that not altering meant finding someone who thought you perfectly topping as you are, but that hardly happens at all. When it does, when two people meet and fall madly in love with each other, it takes barely any impediment at all and the whole thing's called off. It's amazing the institution of marriage survives."

"There is no sorrow like a love denied, nor any joy like love that has its will," Jeeves said assuredly, quoting someone that I couldn't quite recognise. "As long as people keep falling in love, marriage will continue, sir. As difficult as it may be to obtain, it holds too many appeals for a devoted heart not to attempt the challenge."

"Appeals?" I asked, quite fascinated.

"The appeal of spending one's life with the person one loves, the appeal of sharing your thoughts and your soul with someone who has sworn to stand beside you through the years, these can be worth the greatest of trials."

"That's not a quote from somewhere, is it, Jeeves?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir."

"Oh," I said, a little surprised by his eloquence on the subject. "Could you see yourself getting married?"

"Not in the foreseeable future, sir."

He said it in a rummy way, as if the idea did not sit at all well with him. I was intrigued. "Why ever not? According to the girls in Manhattan, it would not be for lack of acceptances."

"Committing oneself to marriage would entail certain sacrifices I am not prepared to make," Jeeves said, as cryptic a Sphinx as ever wore a bowler hat. I gestured for him to continue. "When married, one has a moral obligation to consider one's choice of employment in the light of family requirements. A steady, stable income would be of the utmost importance."

"You already have that," I replied, not seeing his point at all.

"Working for a young, unmarried gentleman who may, at a moment's notice, decide to travel overseas for months at a time would not be the ideal situation." I was about to object, to point out that I am not one to spend all my time gallivanting around the world on pleasure trips when Jeeves added, "Also, the living situation would be unsuitable."

"What's unsuitable about my flat? It's a fine location and plenty of space," I said, and Jeeves quirked a brow. "Well, plenty of space for the two of us. There's barely enough space when Macintosh stays, so there wouldn't be enough space for a child, let alone a wife."

"Precisely, sir."

"You shouldn't let that stop you. It's only a minor thing. I could take a house in Wimbledon, somewhere nice and quiet that would require at least a cook, a maid and a butler. And if I needed to travel, I could travel on my own -- I've done so before -- and you could stay and ensure the house is run well. That way, you would have stability and plenty of space."

There are times when, halfway through arguing a point, you find yourself questioning the intelligence of trying to argue for it. This was a perfect example of that. While I didn't want to think that my choices had forced Jeeves to avoid the concept of marriage, I doubted it was in my best interests to talk him into marrying the next girl he saw.

"Unless you're particularly sweet on someone right now, it's all a moot point," I said hopefully.

Jeeves gave one slow nod. "I am quite content with my current place in life and, to be rather forthright, I do not think the charms of marriage would compensate for the necessity of changing our existing arrangement."

We wandered quietly for a while, letting the romantic atmosphere compensate for my attempts to talk Jeeves into marrying. Next thing I knew, I found we had walked all the way back to the house. My intent of casual conversation leading to romance had not gone entirely as planned. Lacking anything else to say or any excuse to continue, I was forced to end it. "Well, I won't keep you any longer, Jeeves."

"What about the Long-eared Owl, sir?"

I had completely forgotten about the owl but I stopped myself from saying so. "I didn't see anything owl-like, Jeeves. I don't think I saw anything particularly bird-like."

"Perhaps we will have better luck tomorrow night. Good night, sir."

"Good night, Jeeves." I walked inside and it wasn't until I was standing at the sideboard, helping myself to a gin and tonic, that I realised the full implication of Jeeves' words. For as long as we stayed at Brinkley Court, provided we did not find Bonzo's owl, I had a good excuse for having Jeeves to myself each night.

The thought filled me with a new-found sense of enthusiasm. Despite French tennis coaches and disputes between lovers, this visit might be the most enjoyable yet.

The next morning started bright and cheerily and, as any truly good day should, not one moment before nine in the good old _ante meridiem_. I have found in many country houses that this is a detail oft overlooked by the host. All too frequently, the place is run by rural types who believe in getting up as the sun rises or by sharp fellows who work in London and insist upon breakfasting as the milk truck rolls by. It is to my Aunt Dahlia's credit that Brinkley Court is run to far more civilised hours and that breakfast is available until an hour before lunch. Her youth of running with the Quorn taught her not only a rich array of hunting expletives, but also of the value of a hearty, late breakfast after a night of toasting to the hunt. When staying away from the metrop., the availability of hot bacon and eggs after ten in the morning must be considered, and in this respect, Brinkley Court never fails its visitors.

Knowing this, I had Jeeves run me a bath. As much as I love the freedom of travelling by automobile -- the ability to start and stop as one chooses, the total control over route and speed -- going over long distances in the two-seater always leaves me feeling gritty and somewhat soiled around the edges.

Once suitably clean and attired, I went to breakfast. After finishing two helpings of the _Eggs Benedict_ \-- Jeeves had recommended them and he had not erred -- I sought out Tuppy.

He was on the lawns, entertaining himself with archery. He had just nocked an arrow and drawn the bow, so I waited until he released before calling out. When interrupting an archer, I've found it best not to startle them unexpectedly. "What ho, Tuppy."

"What ho, Bertie," he said, waving me over. "Any luck with this Facet business?"

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Tuppy had been looking decidedly sour but at this note, he pepped up like Napoleon being told that calling off the Russia-France alliance had been Alexander's little joke. "Does Jeeves have a scheme, Bertie?"

"Not for getting the chap fired, no."

Tuppy nocked the next arrow and narrowed his eyes at the target as if the rings had been replaced by one much unloved Frenchman. "Then what did you have to talk to me about?"

"I spoke to Angela last night, Tuppy. I don't think you're being entirely fair--"

"You've come to plead her case? I should have expected as much." Tuppy let the shot go and it landed squarely in the red. "You bring shame to Old Etonians everywhere, Bertie. Prizing a girl over a close friend, showing no support, no allegiance, no faithfulness to the old school spirit."

"I say!" I said. "Angela has hidden me from our Aunt Agatha. That deserves a decent sense of loyalty, Tuppy."

"Forget this childhood loyalty, Bertie, I am asking you as a friend and fellow club-member."

"Who said anything about childhood? The last time Angela concealed me was last Christmas Day, when she hid me in the coat room and brought me brandy and roast potatoes from one o'clock until Aunt Agatha left at three." I ignored the nasty smirk hovering over Tuppy's features and brought us back to the topic at hand. "I don't think you're fully aware of the facts of the matter. If you were, you would not question the bonds of my friendship."

"Angela told you all of the facts, did she? She told you things that she couldn't share with her beloved fiancé? I find that hard to believe."

"I approached her as a concerned cousin, worried about her happiness and the misunderstanding between you two. Like the sweet-natured girl that she is, she explained the facts and asked me to keep it confidential. As an old friend, I trust you will keep this under your hat and not tell her that I told you?"

"Go on."

Tuppy lowered the bow and faced me the way one would face an execution squad. It was clear that he both loved Angela and half-expected that his fears would be proved true. It would be unkind to draw such a moment out, so I put his mind at ease as quickly as I could. "Angela has no feelings for Facet. Her only interest is in Honoria."

Tuppy looked quite confused. "Angela has feelings for my cousin Honoria?"

I realised I had skipped a few important steps. "Not at all, other than a sisterly sense of friendship, one assumes. What I meant to tell you was that Angela has only employed Facet in order to beat Honoria next time they play. Now do you see?"

"If that was true, Bertie, and I'm not saying it is, why couldn't she have told me this herself?"

"She was worried about your good opinion of her, Tuppy. Apparently, last time they played, Honoria beat her soundly and was then extremely civil about it."

"Honoria does that," Tuppy said coldly. "She'll play like an Amazon, utterly ruthless, and then be entirely syrupy about winning, saying things like 'better luck next time' and 'you did well, considering you walk like a duck'."

"She told Angela she had flat feet."

"The nerve of it! Angela's feet are as perfectly formed as the rest of her."

"Well, I couldn't hazard an opinion on that, Tuppy, but I'll take your word for it. Anyway, the story goes that Angela, quite piqued by the invective against her feet, replied that next time they played, she would be the victor. It has become a point of pride."

"And that's why she's spending so many hours hanging on Facet's every word? When they're on the tennis court, he's all over her, Bertie. An arm around her back, a hand on her forearm. It's indecent."

"Be that as it may, old bean, she swears he's done wonders for her back swing and when it comes to a point of pride, a girl will go a great distance to ensure she is not humiliated. She will go even further if the event of said humiliation may be witnessed by her beloved."

That did the trick. Tuppy's puffed chest deflated and one could see the fight ease out of him. "I should have known Angela wouldn't be taken in by such a weasel," he said, admitting his blunder.

I clasped him on the shoulder. "So you will go to her and tell her all is well?"

He grinned at me, and then the happy expression melted like an iceberg dropped into the middle of the Sahara. "I can't, Bertie."

"Why not?"

"I swore to her that until she told Facet to push off, I wouldn't speak another word to her. If I go back and tell her all is fine, she'll think that I can't keep my word. She'll lose her faith in me, Bertie." He spoke in all earnestness and I could see his point. Some girls take badly to knowing that their beau, after laying down the law and giving his word, can change his mind after a quick chat to his friends. "I shall have to keep up the silence."

"Perhaps you could tell her you'd reconsidered?"

"I would still look like a dithering idiot. While that doesn't affect her fond feelings for you, Bertie, she holds me to a higher standard."

I pondered on it for a moment. "Tell her that you haven't changed your opinion on Facet, but that you now see that it's a bit tough to expect her to fire the chap on the spot. Say that you want him gone by Sunday and that as long as she promises to do so, all is forgiven."

Tuppy, likewise, pondered. "That could work, Bertie."

"It will work, Tuppy. I'm sure of it." After a moment, I added, "Say, how long is Honoria planning to stay?"

"Oh, about two weeks, I should think. She'll be here for lunch on Saturday."

"Well, then." I decided to go find Jeeves and tell him of this development. If that was the case, we would need to leave the grounds by Saturday morning at the latest. "I'll leave you to make up with Angela, Tuppy. Pip-pip."

"Pip-pip, Bertie."

In the drawing room, I found one of the maids and asked about Jeeves' whereabouts. Sitting at the piano, I played a little ditty while I waited for her return. Then I rifled through the sheet music left beside the instrument. The main piano player in the household is Angela, a great girl in all respects other than her musical taste. She tends to gravitate towards soupy love songs full of slow melodies and scales that only former opera singers could manage.

I kept flicking through the pages because occasionally Tuppy's tastes can be seen in a jolly tune here or there. Halfway through the stack I found something that looked promising. It was titled _My Wife Is On A Diet_ and seemed to have a nice beat, so I pulled it out and gave it a try.

I was a line into the chorus when the maid came back and interrupted apologetically. Just as butlers can be intimidating and staunch, as highly starched as their collars, there is an air to maids that makes them seem contrite even when they're nothing of the sort. She explained in her regretful way that Mr Jeeves had stepped out for a touch of fresh air. It seemed dashed silly to me because there's no way to escape the fresh air in the country, so no need to go outside seeking the stuff. She went on to say she hadn't been able to find him in the garden.

Since my need for him wasn't overwhelming, I waved her away with a brief instruction that she should, if she saw Jeeves, ask him to come see to me in the drawing room and I went back to the piano keys.

After playing the song through a few times, working through the melody, getting the key shifts right and developing a keen urge for grapefruit, I turned back to the pile. The next one I tried was _(I'd Like To Be) A Bee In Your Boudoir_. It was a fun song that would be well received in the Drones, although possibly a touch risqué for singing in the company of girls you don't know well; in unfamiliar company, singing about lingerie and posing on a girl's knee can lead to being considered a badly-mannered cousin of Casanova. I followed this with _Eadie Was A Lady_ , one of those call-and-reply style songs, like _Minnie the Moocher_. While playing the tune alone will give no difficulties, it's a little harder to sing both roles. Normally, I ask Jeeves to pitch in and help me out, but he still hadn't arrived.

I looked around the room for Jeeves has a conjurer's ability to simply be where he wasn't before, seemingly without the need to open or close doors to get there but this time, I remained alone. It was nothing short of fishy. A fellow like Jeeves isn't in the habit of ignoring his master's summons.

It called for investigation. Walking through the French windows, I went to find my errant manservant. I must admit I was driven more by curiosity than concern. For Jeeves to neglect his duties to me he must be in the middle of ... I wasn't sure. Something grand and complicated, certainly. Negotiating between Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom, perhaps but judging by the last meal, they were getting on splendidly. Maybe he was finding an undetectable way of sabotaging Honoria's upcoming tennis game.

Most likely the apologetic maid had incorrectly informed me in the first place and Jeeves had gone down to the village. If that was the case, a brief walk in the sunshine wouldn't do me any harm. If that wasn't the case, the mystery would be solved soon enough.

Coming down the stairs to the garden, I passed Aunt Dahlia. "What ho, Aunt Dahlia."

She kept a close hold on the folders in her hand and barely slowed her canter. "Not now, you young blot. I have three submissions to edit and a working knowledge of essential English grammar is becoming rarer and rarer amongst modern writers."

"Very good," I said, letting her pass. "You haven't seen Jeeves, have you?"

"By the oak tree, Bertie. With Facet," she said, disappearing inside. Rounding the corner to her study with the speed and precision of Precipitation taking the final curve at Ascot, Aunt Dahlia was gone.

As you might imagine, that thought left me somewhat perturbed. There are, of course, several oak trees on the Brinkley grounds but the largest is the Oak Tree, as opposed to the Younger Oak Tree, the Bent Oak Tree and the Other Oak Trees. I tottered over to examine the situation for myself.

There is a saying that goes, _"Do good by stealth ..."_ and something I can't remember. It's one of Jeeves' ruses. But in this circumstance, I felt sure that stealth and camouflage were key so I took the long way around, through the woods, and approached the oak tree from the far side. Crouching, I eased forward, using the bushes to cover me. I stopped when I spotted a familiar bowler hat.

In hindsight, I think it was best that I stayed out of view. When two people think that they've taken a private stroll, they relax and stand closer than they would if they knew prying eyes were watching. This was the case now.

Jeeves, easy to spot against the green background, was standing and resting one shoulder against the trunk of the tree. His head was bowed slightly in conversation, nodding along to the speaker's points. The speaker, wearing an unfamiliar boater, must have been Facet. One glance at the fellow showed that Tuppy's and Jeeves' evaluations of his looks had not erred.

There was brown hair that waved to the top of his collar, a fine and firm jaw line, a straight, slightly stubbed nose and to top it all off, cupid's cheeks that dimpled when he smiled. He had one forearm pressed against the tree and was leaning in, as close as a conspirator to Jeeves. When he took his hat off and used it as a fan, I could see his eyes were clear and bright, glittering with seductive cunning. Regarding general proportions, he filled out his tweed suit extremely well.

This is the type of situation that cannot be ignored. No man can afford to turn his back while a Lothario like that sneaks around, tempting valets and cousins alike. One must be mindful, be aware and be ready to spring to a beloved's defence at a moment's notice. One must be gallant and put one's own discomfort aside in order to be there when needed. Recognising the importance of this, I settled on the ground and determined to stay there until the pair left.

In matters of the English language, Bertram Wooster is no slouch. As you may have noticed in past narratives, I have a deep abiding respect for words and I would go so far as to say a touch of flair in my use of the old E. l. But I am at a loss when it comes to more Gallic ones. I know enough French to get by when holidaying in Cannes, but asking for another drink is very different from following a softly-spoken, private conversation.

I picked up on a few words like _amour_ , _désir_ and _entretien_. I wasn't sure of what the third one meant, but given the first two, I expected it would be something along the same lines: poetic, French phrases designed to sweep a respectable valet off his feet.

When the knave brazenly edged closer, cocking one hip against the tree and reaching out a grasping hand to fondle Jeeves' sleeve, I was tempted to burst up and expose the so-and-so for what he was. It was only the thought of trying to explain why I had been hiding in bushes and spying on the staff that stopped me.

Thankfully, it wasn't long afterwards that the conversation ended and Jeeves, with an ever-cordial tip of his dark brim, headed back towards the house. Facet slithered in the other direction like a true snake in the grass. I stood up and allowed my legs a few moments to adjust to the wonders of working circulation. Crouching in undergrowth for twenty minutes can leave one with terrible pins-and-needles but it had been worth it. If Facet was making such bold moves -- tempting Jeeves away from master and responsibility, conniving to draw Jeeves from the public eye in order to have his wicked way -- it was clear that I needed to intervene.

No matter how brainy or brilliant the cove, when it comes to love no man sees the dangers of an ill-advised attachment until far too late. That is why a smart fellow will ask friends' opinions and heed a careful word of warning. Jeeves, normally so solid and cautious, might be swayed by calculated flirtation and not recognise the essential character flaws that would normally serve as an admonition.

I wasn't precisely aware of what flaws a character like Facet might be hiding but I was certain they would be numerous and devastating. That would explain why he was moving so fast and secretly pressing his suit in ways that reeked of false charm; his character flaws were so vast and lethal to anyone's estimation of him that his only chance of courting a gem as fine as Jeeves was to ensnare him in flattery before Jeeves could objectively take a measure of the man.

Needless to say, that was not the type of skulduggery I would allow. It went against the code of the Woosters.

That I had no idea how I was going to prevent it didn't dishearten me at all. Where there is a will, there is a way, and where there is a Wooster, the right thing will be done. It's a certainty.

I was sure I would find some way to protect Jeeves against this threat. I pondered it as I walked back to the house -- over the lawns this time, avoiding the burrs and brambles of the woods -- via the tennis grounds to see if Angela was still practising.

She was. From the back of the court, she was using half a dozen balls to practise her serve.

"Much improvement, Angela?" I called out encouragingly.

"Bertie," she said upon spying me, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm showing some strong family support."

She hit the last of her collection of balls, and then jogged over to me. "You're not here to plead Tuppy's case?"

"I wasn't aware Tuppy's case needed to be pleaded, Angela."

She gave me a long, cold look -- much like an aunt -- and then cousinly affection won the day. "It does, Bertie."

"He said he was going to come to you and modify his demands. Hasn't he done that?"

"Yes, he did."

"So he said all is well as long as the Frenchman is gone by Sunday?"

She nodded. "Yes, he did."

"And said Frenchman will be gone by Sunday?"

"Yes, he will."

"And all is well?"

Here she shook her head like a horse trying to shoo flies away. "No. All is rotten, Bertie."

"But why?"

"Tuppy came and demanded that I fire Guillaume by Sunday."

I blinked and tried my best to understand. I thought I'd been following the _tête-à-tête_ , but from Angela's behaviour, I was missing important information. "I don't follow, Angela. Tuppy has asked for no more than you were going to do anyway, and you act as if it's an act of treason."

"Tuppy acts as if engagement is an act of war. He acts as if martial law has been declared and he is a general, while I'm a lowly foot soldier, and whatever his demands are, whatever his orders, I must jump to obey. I tell you, Bertie, I will not."

Angela, for all of her fine, outstanding qualities, is very much her mother's daughter. She is a spirited girl, not to be tamed. I hadn't thought to warn Tuppy that he needed to ease her into the idea, not bark it as a command. "Angela, old thing, I think you're looking at this entirely the wrong way."

"Then maybe I should concentrate on the lack of trust he has in me instead." She shook her head again in that same equine way. "Ordering me not to spend time with a fellow, simply because he happens to be attractive. Pshaw, Bertie."

"So you acknowledge that Facet is attractive?" I asked, thinking of my conundrum with Jeeves.

"To look at him, he's quite a dream," Angela said with the barest hint of a sigh.

"Exactly. He's entirely too good-looking, Angela. You can't trust a man who looks like that. Beside," I said, ignoring the sharp look she shot me, "it's not you Tuppy doesn't trust, old girl. It's all the other fellows in the world, the cads who would fall for a girl and try to steal her from her fiancé."

She didn't look convinced. "You think so, do you, Bertie? Because I can't see it."

"Certainly. You can't fault a chap so head over heels, clover and roses, all is right in the world in love with you that he believes that any other man in his right mind needs nothing more than to spend a few hours in your company to see you as the utter paragon of feminine charm and beauty. To Tuppy, it makes perfect sense that any fellow talking to you must be on the verge or in the process of giving his heart to you alone."

"Well," she said, tone softening. "It is true that he loves me dearly."

"As a matter of fact," I said, warming to the topic and feeling that an honest narrative might help, "after our trip to Cannes, he even accused me of trying to break you up. Apparently I wanted you so much that I would throw off school loyalties and stab a close friend between the shoulder blades."

"Oh, that's ridiculous," Angela said and now her tone was quite fond. "Tuppy should have known that there was never anything between us. Why would he ever think I'd choose you over him?"

"Quite." There are some sacrifices one must make to ensure the happiness of kith, kin and friends. If a slight blow to the dignity and one's own sense of worth is required, never let it be said that Bertie Wooster was not willing to sacrifice himself heartily. "I told Tuppy there was nothing going on, but a man so in love can be blinded to the truth."

With a sigh, Angela capitulated. "I'll speak fondly to him over lunch, Bertie."

"That's the spirit, old girl."

Young Angela was true to her word. When I complimented the potatoes, she said amiably, "Try the chicken, Bertie. It's wonderfully tender. Truly one of Anatole's best, don't you think so, Tuppy?" and Tuppy hastened to agree.

There was the usual chit-chat, mainly revolving around Aunt Dahlia, who had decided to dine in her study so she could continue to edit those submissions. The amount of time and effort she expends for that women's magazine is enough to make one look twice at any regular publication. When you pick up a paper, you never stop to think of the number of hours and the intensity of toil that has gone into making the thing suitable for public consumption.

Then Angela said, "Tuppy, darling, do pass the salt," which I thought was laying it on a bit thick, but Tuppy grabbed the salt shaker with a burst of speed that would leave a cheetah jealous.

After lunch, Tuppy held out his hand and asked if Angela would go for a stroll and she, smiling as if the Prince of Wales had asked her to dance, took his hand and said she would love nothing more than a walk in the sunshine. It was enough to make Anatole's _Bombe Néro_ seem bitter in comparison.

Left alone, I went to my room and found Jeeves brushing down my dinner jacket. "Oh, Jeeves, I was just about to track you down."

"Mary mentioned that you wanted to see me, sir, but you were not in the drawing room when I returned."

"It's not like you to disappear, Jeeves." Actually, it was quite like Jeeves to disappear. But he normally reappeared the moment I needed him. "Well, not like you to be out of contact."

"I do apologise, sir," Jeeves said in the way of butlers and valets everywhere, meaning that while he used the right words in the right order, it was apparent that he was only saying sorry because he would be remiss in his duties if he did not do so. There is a skill to making an apology sound quite proper and not at all one's own, personal fault. Like many other skills, this is something Jeeves has mastered to an art form.

"It was nothing important, Jeeves, simply that Honoria Glossop will be arriving at Brinkley Court on Saturday so I believe it would be best if we left after breakfast. At the latest."

"Yes, sir."

Skinning out of my jacket and passing it to Jeeves to hang up, I sat down to watch Jeeves work. There is something quite hypnotic in observing the way Jeeves moves about his duties. While he is the embodiment of efficiency and could never be accused of dithering over a task, there is also a tangible sense of consideration in the way he treats my belongings. Not one to be careless with a dish, Jeeves -- in matters of apparel -- could almost be described as fond. It is as if he takes a personal liking to clothes, considering his job to protect them from deterioration and care for them when stained or torn.

(Of course, he does not share this relationship with every article of my wardrobe. Certain items -- such as loud check suits or monogrammed handkerchiefs -- have mortally offended him and possibly said some very cutting things about his mother. Those he treats with the utmost disdain until they are either forsaken or damaged beyond repair.)

Watching Jeeves carefully hold the dinner jacket close with one hand and use the other to slowly drag the soft-bristled brush in long, smooth strokes across the material is fascinating, and has sometimes made me wonder if, when completely alone, he's ever been tempted to whisper sweet nothings into my wardrobe. Judging by Jeeves' current silence, he probably wasn't the type to whisper sweet nothings.

But during this afternoon with Facet, Jeeves hadn't shown any reticence.

"I say, Jeeves," I said as Jeeves did some final tweaking with the collar and hung the dinner jacket up in the wardrobe. "What was it that kept you so busy this afternoon? Helping Aunt Dahlia out with those bally submissions?"

"No, sir, although I did promise to look over them this afternoon," Jeeves said calmly. You would think a man who had ditched his responsibilities in order to lounge in the sunshine with a suitor would manage to rustle up a little remorse. "I spent the morning talking with M Facet."

"Any particular reason, Jeeves?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could, taking some pleasure from the fact that Jeeves, unlike Angela, had not taken to calling Facet by his Christian name.

"It seemed that a great deal of the tribulation between Miss Angela and Mr Glossop was directly caused by the amount of time Miss Angela spent with M Facet. I believed it would be in everyone's best interest if M Facet were otherwise entertained for a while."

This made more sense. Jeeves had gone to further extremes for the greater good than taking walks with unpalatable company. "Good thinking, Jeeves. Although on the Tuppy-Angela aspect, I think we have that one sorted."

"Indeed, sir?" Jeeves asked and I explained the current situation, including the sickening sweetness that had occurred at the end of lunch. Jeeves gave a small but approving nod. "That is most reassuring. I still believe that it would be advisable to provide M Facet with a source of company other than Miss Angela."

"I heartily concur. He should spend as much time with the other staff as possible."

"That would not be practical, sir." I must have shown my surprise for Jeeves quickly added, "M Facet's English is sadly lacking and he has found himself feeling quite the intruder amongst domestic staff who, with the notable exception of M Anatole, do not speak French fluently."

While Aunt Dahlia, Angela and I have all been to France -- not Uncle Tom, for he can't stomach the South of France at any cost -- Angela is the only one of us who managed any true eloquence with the Gallic tongue. I know enough to get by, but asking directions to the restaurant is not exactly the same as holding an interesting colloquy.

"So that's why he's been spending so much time with Angela? She's the only one here who speaks French?"

"Precisely, sir."

I had a moment of feeling sympathy for the fellow. Travelling to a foreign country and not speaking the local lingo can be awfully isolating. Luckily for me, I usually travel with company or with Jeeves, so there is always a reassuring conversation awaiting me back at the hotel, but when roaming the streets alone, you can easily feel the odd one out. It's enough to get even the cheeriest chap down. "So you were commiserating with him, giving him a friendly ear, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir," Jeeves replied. "He also mentioned during our conversation this morning that he had developed certain amorous feelings towards one of the domestic staff currently here."

"Aha!" I'd known it. I'd been sure that the underhanded Frenchman had been pressing his suit, and I was right. Clearly, Facet had misinterpreted Jeeves' attempts to guard Angela's happiness and had tried a trick so ancient Methuselah would have thought it past its time.

The trick that I mean is this. Approach the attractive dreamboat of your choice, talk about sad hearts that long for love and suffer for want of it and, when the sympathy kicks in, hit them with the proposal and make it a done deal. It almost worked for Gussie Fink-Nottle and it did land yours truly in hot water with the Basset, so the strength of this approach cannot be denied.

"Sir?"

I crossed my arms. "He mentioned that he was lonely and longed for love, and all that, right?"

"He did, sir. May I ask how you came to know of this situation?"

"I had my suspicions, Jeeves," I said knowingly.

Jeeves raised an eyebrow approximately a sixteenth of an inch and managed to sound surprised without sounding surprised at all. I'm really not sure how he does it. "Indeed, sir?"

"A man of the world can sense these things, Jeeves." A man of the world also knows the futility of simply ordering someone to stay away from an admirer. It's like waving a red flag in front of a barnyard animal. It's amazing the number of practical, hard-headed men and women who will pursue a relationship simply because a respected family member has ordered them not to. If I was to ensure that Jeeves remained unattached from such an unscrupulous sort as Facet must be, I would need to be more shrewd than that.

"If you have no further need of me, sir, I will go downstairs and attempt to assist Mrs Travers."

"Very good, Jeeves," I said and waved him away. Then inspiration struck: not with a clang but with the soft sound of a top hat being laid upon a chest of drawers. "Jeeves, after you've corrected and adjusted those articles as necessary, could you come back up here?"

"Yes, sir." It wasn't a question, unless you took into account the slightly pursed lips and the way Jeeves continued to stand there, politely waiting for an answer.

"I have decided to wear white tie tonight, Jeeves." I was well aware that Jeeves had already prepared my dinner jacket for this evening and that preparing my evening coat would be an additional and, strictly speaking, unnecessary task. But it would ensure that Jeeves' time was spent productively and far from temptation.

"Is there any particular reason for the added formality, sir?" Jeeves asked, voice betraying nothing but civil curiosity. Despite the extra work it would entail, Jeeves does hold strong opinions on evening wear for gentlemen. If he is fond of morning suits and dinner jackets, it could be said that has a lifelong commitment to the sombre convention of the evening coat. It is, as Jeeves would say, 'the psychology of the individual' and I had accounted for it well and truly.

While the task would keep him occupied, it was not something Jeeves would begrudge doing.

"Anatole is serving his famous _Timbales de ris de veau toulousaine_ tonight, Jeeves. I believe that warrants a ceremonial show of appreciation."

"Very good, sir," he said and left.

A careful search through my drawers later, I found my book. Not the Diderot one, despite how well it had served its purpose -- I had had enough of Frenchmen for the moment -- but the American detective story, set in the seedy underworld of Chicago, that I had brought as light reading. I thought it would do the trick and take my mind completely off matters involving Jeeves. It was moderately successful.

While I held my breath when they found the murdered girl (shot through the cheek, which make me immediately doubt the policeman's suicide finding. If a girl who wears make-up and skirts no longer than the knee is going to kill herself, she won't do it in a way that leaves a great, gaping hole through one side of her face. It stands to reason that even in death, a stunner wants to be remembered as a stunner) and I will confess to jerking in my seat when the hired muscle bludgeoned the detective with the butt of his snub-nosed revolver, there was still a part of me worrying over this development with Jeeves and the tennis coach.

It occurred to me that I hadn't asked enough questions. I knew the cad had mentioned longing hearts, but had he mentioned Jeeves' name specifically? Jeeves had heard him out in a very sympathetic way -- too sympathetic if you ask me -- but had Jeeves given him any solid encouragement? If Jeeves had wavered and not given a definite answer -- doubtful, since Jeeves is a man of iron will and steel opinions, but a slim, outside possibility is still a possibility -- was it from a sense of propriety or a distaste for the man?

These were important questions.

If it had only been a general discussion, then Facet had got no further with Jeeves than I had, and ensuring that Jeeves' time was otherwise occupied would be enough to evade the danger. I could always offer to provide companionship for Facet myself -- abhorrent though the thought might be -- and claim a desire to improve my command of the French language.

If the scoundrel had made the direction of his attentions clear and Jeeves had prevaricated, the situation was direr. We would spend another three full days at Brinkley Court, giving Jeeves ample time to change his mind. It would be three afternoons of leisurely walks and three evening meals in the servants' hall with charming conversation over Anatole's meals. Marriages had been based on far less.

Worst still was the thought that the knave might have received encouragement from Jeeves. Jeeves has a rummy habit of getting precisely what he wants, regardless of strongly I put my foot down and refuse. If Jeeves had decided that in this case, an understanding with Facet was what he wanted, I could not delude myself into believing that anything short of bundling us both into the car and getting on the next cruise leaving port would dissuade him. And even then, there was a better than average chance that Facet would somehow appear aboard deck.

The thought left me as cold as the detective. I may need to mention that I'd just finished the chapter where the detective is trapped inside a meat locker and left to freeze to death, so my readers will understand the strength of the shiver that racked my spine.

My fears were eased by Jeeves' return.

I have remarked before that there is something quite magnetic about Jeeves: his very presence reassures and inspires the confidence much in the way that Admiral Nelson must have done whenever he stepped aboard an English vessel. Friends have joked that there's no need to fear when Jeeves is near. I wouldn't go so far as to say that, since Jeeves' methods can be rough on one's dignity and sometimes on one's entire frame -- especially the billowy portions -- but the essential sentiment is true. When Jeeves stands there, wide shoulders holding up a dark jacket and the weight of the world, eyes gleaming with intelligence, it's impossible to believe that any situation could be without hope.

So while in the midst of the business of dressing -- the buttoning of waistcoats, the straightening of jackets, the tying of ties -- I seized hope and brought the subject up. "Jeeves, I don't mean to pry, but I was curious. Did Facet happen to mention the name of his paramour?"

"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, giving my shoulder a final brush.

"Oh, I said, feeling the world uncertain beneath me. There was nothing for it but to trudge onwards. "This other party, do they requite his interest?"

"I could not say, sir."

Swallow as I might, I could not dampen the dust of dread that settled in my throat. "Indeed, Jeeves?"

"I have not had sufficient time to assess the second party's true opinion of the man. I was hoping to inspect the matter at dinner, sir."

The prognosis was not as good as I'd hoped but neither was it as horrid as I'd feared. It was a rummy situation, me on one side, Facet on the other, and Jeeves in the middle evaluating us both. "I say, Jeeves, you haven't forgotten our standing appointment with the Long-eared Owl, have you?"

"Not at all, sir. Although I think we would stand a better chance of seeing the bird if we met directly after dinner. Uncle Charlie always swore that dusk and dawn were the best times for avian activity."

The meal could have been one of Anatole's best, but I couldn't say which dishes were served. Likewise, I can say with certainty that Angela and Tuppy were quite chummy once more, and the conversation between them, Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom was lively, but I couldn't say what they discussed. I spent too much of the meal ruminating on Jeeves' overly diplomat answer to be anything more than a body at the table.

"Bertie, have you lost your voice?" Aunt Dahlia asked as the dishes from the main course were cleared away. "Come down with a sudden bout of tonsillitis or laryngitis, or one of those?"

"No, Aunt Dahlia."

"Then join in the conversation, Bertie. Your silence is quite disturbing."

"I understand how chatter could be disturbing, but I fail to see how my silence could disturb anyone, old relative of mine."

Aunt Dahlia waved her wine glass imperially. "You are only silent when you are scheming something ghastly, you young delinquent. I would much rather you opened your mouth and let every inane thought out of your head and into the ether where it does less damage."

"I'm not scheming anything, Aunt Dahlia, I am simply a little tired from yesterday's travels." I emptied my wine glass and poured another. There are times when sobriety is important and times when it's a distinct handicap. If I had sat through one of Anatole's meals and barely noticed the taste, a great deal of alcohol could only improve matters.

But as dinner finished too early for me to be anything more than mildly tipsy, I made my way to the rose garden in almost full control of my faculties. It was the type of pressure that would make a hardened conqueror consider pleading a sudden cold and go hide under his bedding.

At least Jeeves was already waiting for me, but how he managed that feat I had no idea. I let Jeeves lead the way and followed him quietly. The last time I'd felt so nervous of the words coming out of my mouth, I was faced with a pack of untamed schoolgirls pulling faces at me.

Any opening gambit seemed too glib or too intimate, foolish in the extreme or nothing short of nosey. I wouldn't say that Jeeves has an intimidating profile -- once you know him, you have no doubt that he is the finest of men -- yet as I walked beside him, I could not force words past my lips.

At first, the silence felt quite awkward, burdened with the weight of words not being voiced. As we walked, the discomfort lessened and I accepted the pleasantness of the evening breeze and clear skies. It was a bit like that Yeats poem, the one that starts nicely, talking about the full round moon and the star-laden sky, and the loud song of the ever-singing leaves and ends quite mournfully, casting aspersions on all of those things.

This was a night of the first verse. The weather was agreeable, there was that fresh smell of country air and Jeeves keeping step beside me, looking as relaxed as he ever had. I stepped a little more jauntily and maybe even hummed a tune under my breath.

Then Jeeves laid a hand on my jacket, right about the elbow, and pointed (with his other hand, I mean) to an owl perched upon a branch.

"The Long-eared Owl," he said, speaking quite close to my own, not so long, ear.

The thing had orange eyes and looked as if it had swapped ears with a bat. It also looked familiar. It wasn't until it let out a low 'woo' that I spotted the resemblance. "It's Aunt Agatha."

"Sir?" Jeeves had raised an eyebrow and if I'd been in his posish instead of mine, I would have been just as surprised.

"I've seen this owl before. During that vile bicycle ride to Kingham, the thing was perched on a signpost. Bally thing nearly gave me a heart attack. I was so rattled at the time and given its almost identical appearance to my Aunt Agatha -- you do see the resemblance, don't you, Jeeves?"

Jeeves nodded and belatedly removed his hand from my arm. "There is a certain familiarity to its features."

"Nearly identical, Jeeves. For a moment, I thought it was Aunt Agatha. Then I realised she does not make a habit of sitting on signposts by country roads."

"Not to my knowledge, sir."

"Well, that and the thing hooted at me. If it had been Aunt Agatha sitting on a signpost, you can be sure the first words out of her mouth would have been asking what in the world I thought I was doing, followed by an urging to press the pedals harder and a reminder that sitting on a bicycle is no excuse for slouching." We stood looking at the thing a few moments more. "I say, Jeeves, is there something else we're supposed to be doing? As birdwatchers, I mean."

"Generally the object of the venture is to observe the bird in its natural habitat, sir."

"You mean you find it, you take a gander at it and call it a successful day?"

"Essentially, sir."

I waited for another two minutes and the only thing the bally bird did was stare back at me, reminding me of Aunt Agatha at last year's Christmas lunch. "The thing looks as if it's planning my next engagement, Jeeves. It's frightfully unnerving."

"Then perhaps we should move on, sir," Jeeves said and we did just that.

"My Aunt Agatha looked precisely like that the last time she introduced me to a girl who could perfectly mould me into a half-decent human being. Her words, Jeeves, not mine."

"I assumed as much."

I stepped over a small ditch and continued, "It's always a terrible experience to be introduced to someone that way. It makes you feel like cattle at a market having your potential future rattled off at auction. And if you talk to the girl in anything but the coldest terms, you can bet the aunt in question will ensure everyone knows of the upcoming nuptials by the following Sunday."

"Having someone intervene in such matters can be uncomfortable at the best of times, sir." Here Jeeves stepped over a furrow that I failed to see.

Consequently, I stumbled for a few steps giving the impression of a man, deathly afraid of heights, suddenly finding himself on stilts.

"It's not the intervention, Jeeves, it's the method of proposing. Proposing by aunt is doomed to failure. A proposal should be from the horse's mouth. It should be heartfelt and genuine and utterly personal."

"Yet so many young men have difficulties when it comes to expulsions of that nature. They can be overcome with shyness or swept away by nerves, and those things they hold most true and wish to say can remain trapped by inelegance."

"The only way to get an elegant proposal, Jeeves, is to write it. I suppose you could then memorise it for best effect, but it's still a chancy thing." I sighed for the problem of a clear, effective proposal is not an easy one to solve. If it was, my friends would have far less worries and there would be fewer girls who could claim the dubious honour of once being my intended. "But the words that come out are generally not the words planned, so even memorising it could still lead to trouble. It would be like reciting poetry in class. After spending hours upon hours learning each verse, when you have to stand there alone and say it, you get it muddled and out of order. That could be quite disastrous when offering to marry someone."

"Perhaps a well-worded letter would be best," Jeeves said thoughtfully.

"That comes with its own setbacks. For one, the matter of grammar. In a spoken declaration, there is a great deal more freedom. If you're writing the thing down, you have to be careful of commas and parentheses and the issue of spelling becomes vital. Imagine if, while concentrating on hitting the right romantic tone, you misspell 'marriage' or, even worse, her name. You would be quite doomed."

"It would be unfortunate."

We continued walking for a few steps, then I stopped as a thought hit me. "There is a greater danger than that in a written appeal, Jeeves."

"Indeed, sir?"

"It is the danger to one's privacy. After gathering one's courage, one tends to get down on one knee in a quiet, secluded place. If the answer is no, only the two of you knows it. But if the declaration is written and the answer is no, it can become a public affair. You are left hoping that the other party will keep the matter as silent as the grave, but there is always the chance that the fellow will share your earnest and possibly badly written letter, and people will mock you far and wide."

I realised, as the words left my mouth, the blunder I'd made. You can't very well go around talking of romance and trying to soften a chap up, and then imply that they'd be so indiscreet as to share a heartfelt love letter with all and sundry. "I do apologise, Jeeves. I didn't mean that you would be likely to take out a page in the Daily Mail. I'm sure it would be the last thing you'd do, so I guess the debate between written and verbal declarations is quite a moot point. Well, I mean, when it comes to you. A chap would simply have to work up the bally nerve and say the words."

Jeeves was staring at me, his face frozen. When truly upset or stirred, Jeeves is the epitome of that stony British stare Tennyson described so well. He will look dignified and quite untouched while I, if suffering the same u. or s. emotions, would squirm and frown and go all glossy about the brow.

"Although saying those words can be awfully hard," I said, fidgeting under Jeeves' calm gaze. It was one of those moments that stretched horribly. At first I thought Jeeves might be speechless with delight, thinking of the best way to say that he understood and requited.

In the distance, birds twittered in the trees and leaves rustled in the wind, and I was sure that any minute Jeeves would come to life -- or at least raise a brow -- and say something extremely Jeevesian to show he reciprocated.

Then that silent moment extended into a silent few minutes. Jeeves blinked once, but otherwise looked precisely as if I had said nothing more romantic than 'Nice night, what?' and I saw that his tongue was possibly not cleaved to the roof of his mouth in overwhelming emotion but in dawning horror. I had probably stared much the same way when the Basset first thought I wanted to marry her. The nauseous thought of spending decades in her company had fought against years of chivalrous values and I'd been struck dumb, unable to find a way to tell her politely and kindly that the very idea gave me nightmares.

Clearly, Jeeves was caught in the same spot, not wanting to be overly cruel but also quite horrified that the simpering idiot in front of him had decided, without consultation, that they were to spend the foreseeable future together.

In such a situation, one is understandably crushed. Ideally, the object of one's affections should feel the same. But on the other hand, it seems unfair to sulk about the thing and subject said o. to an embarrassing scene of whining or arguing in one's own favour, and it reeks of selfishness to show that you've taken the hit hard. Stiff upper lips are vital on occasions like this.

"Well," I said, looking about at the skyline, "Just a hypothetical. Both ways are heavily flawed, though. Next time I propose, I shall do so by telegram."

Jeeves finally stirred from his harrowing impersonation of a statue. "Telegram, sir?"

"Yes, Jeeves, telegram." I started to walk once more, and Jeeves fell in beside me. "I can picture it now. It would start 'Dear Sarah' -- assuming, of course, that the girl's name is Sarah and not Mabel or Agnes or some such, because even when proposing by telegraph getting the name right is still important -- but, yes, 'Dearest Sarah. Am head over heels for you. Cannot bear life without you. Want you to marry me. Please reply.' It would make the proposal process far less of a feat of endurance."

"Yes, sir."

I picked up my stride, warming to my topic. "Of course, you'd still have the horrendous wait, wouldn't you? You'd send off a nice telegram and every extra minute that passed would make you wonder if you'd done it right, if the girl loved you, if her parents would agree. If she wasn't at home and you had to wait hours for a reply, it could send you mad with worry."

I fumbled in my pocket for a gasper and Jeeves helpfully lit it for me.

"There's no way around it, Jeeves. If one wishes to propose, one must subject oneself to the most humiliating test of waiting and hoping that the rarest of things has happened: that two people have both formed similar attachments. It is enough to make me happy to remain a gay bachelor."

"Romance is frequently strewn with uneasy feelings, sir. I doubt any of us do it well."

Jeeves stopped walking, so I did too. He looked meaningfully at my shoes and cleared his throat. I glanced down to see if I'd accidentally donned a brightly mismatched pair of socks but could see nothing amiss.

"Sir," Jeeves started and then halted.

Luckily for me -- because in the awkwardness of the moment, I had a suspicion that if allowed to continue, Jeeves may have used phrases like 'inappropriate', 'regret' and 'resignation' -- Angela came stalking up the path, treading like a delicate, sweet-natured young woman who has had her heart broken and would love nothing more than to see the heart-breaker impaled upon a pike.

"What ho, Angela," I said, waving her nearer. This earned me a slight smile. From her, I mean, not Jeeves. Jeeves looked on neutrally, his chiselled features once more becoming quite c. in appearance.

"What ho, Bertie," she said in a way that made me suspect she'd been looking for me and not because she wanted to throw roses before me.

"Is everything all right?"

"Tuppy has been making comments about my feet. He has declared them perfectly proportioned."

"That's very sweet of him, Angela."

She crossed her arms. "Clearly you told him that Honoria said I had flat feet, Bertie. I confided in you as a cousin and now I find you are physically incapable of keeping your trap shut for a few measly hours."

"Angela!" I cried, wounded. "I spoke to Tuppy and told him certain things only. I did not betray a confidence; I merely enlightened a friend of particular details so he would be aware that he was acting like a fathead."

"Bertie, I think you have the fattest head of them all," she said, and turned on her supposedly well proportioned feet and stalked back towards the house. Given the option of continuing my stroll with Jeeves or dashing after my irritated cousin and getting an earful, I scampered after her as quick as I could.

I am quite sure Honoria Glossop is wrong because Angela put on a sudden bout of speed -- while wearing Parisian heels, no less -- that would have been impossible if she had been flatfooted. I followed her to the doorway and then decided that tracking a girl to her bedroom when she does not wish to be disturbed goes against the standard of behaviour expected of a gentleman. I would go up to my rooms and if she wished to talk to me, she could find me there.

I undressed quickly and pulled on my heliotrope pyjamas. I took a little care in hanging my clothes back up; normally I would leave that job to Jeeves, but in the current situation I wanted to escape Jeeves' company. It's all well and good being discreet and sensitive to another's possible distress, but even the best of chaps needs the occasional moment alone to mope in disappointment. I'm not enough of a Fink-Nottle type to start threatening to drown myself or anything like that, but there is something very soothing about crawling into bed, turning off all the lights and clutching your pillow. (As any lower schoolboy will tell you, a pillow can be a first-rate substitute for a stuffed bear or some other comforting childhood toy.)

When dealing with a set-back, I find it helps to look on the bright side and consider how much worse it could have been. While Jeeves is not the type prone to sudden bursts of laughter, he could have sneered or smirked, could have looked ridiculously amused by the idea. He might have used his height to look down on me like something stuck to the bottom of a shoe or said in clear, cold tones how little he thought of me as a romantic prospect, how great my flaws are or the number of other terrible, distasteful things he would willingly choose to do rather than agree.

It could have been much worse.

And who knew? Maybe this would be like Florence Craye or Bobbie Wickham, and I would wake in the morning and see my narrow escape. After all, a life with Jeeves would be...

Here, I had to stop and think hard. It would be sartorially boring, I told myself, limited to respectable, understated clothes. I would wear nothing but navy, grey and brown for the rest of my casual hours. I would find myself travelling around the globe, going to places I didn't want to and leaving the metrop. far behind, simply because of Jeeves' Viking streak and his taste for adventure. I would probably be expected to read books of poetry and have serious conversations, to start learning things I was happy to forget at the end of school. And for all I knew, Jeeves snored.

Yes, it had been a narrow, lucky escape and I resolved to think of it in those terms.

My bedroom door slid open, so quietly that I knew it could only have been opened by one man. I did not move, other than to close my eyes and let my mouth droop open slightly. The art to feigning sleep has nothing to do with a convincing snore -- most honest snores do not sound convincing at all, rather they're so preposterous that you know they can only be real -- but with long, relaxed breathing. If you breathe deeply and remain still, there is a very good chance that roving House Masters and interrupting valets will assume you are fast asleep and leave you like that.

The other benefit is that breathing in this way always puts me to sleep. I was out like a light and can only suppose that Jeeves hovered in the doorway for a bare moment, and then closed the door and went his way.

The next thing I was aware of was not, unfortunately, the warm sunshine and possible distant chirping of birds but the sound of Brinkley Court's enormous fire bell. Uncle Tom, a man wary of few things, has a particular fear of burning to death in his bed. I suppose, compared to a fear of frogs or umbrellas, this is not a completely unreasonable fear -- there have been recorded cases of people dying from fire or smoke, while the numbers extinguished by frogs and umbrellas remains so low as to be negligible -- but Uncle Tom's way of dealing with it was to install the largest fire bell in the county.

As a boy staying at Brinkley Court over holidays, it was not unusual to wake to a fire drill, the bell clanging loudly and everyone heading out the front door in an orderly fashion, except for one or two maids who would gasp and swoon, and end up being carried out by footmen. I have a suspicion that Uncle Tom's fire drills were probably responsible for at least half of the inter-servant marriages at Brinkley Court.

Still, my point was this: I had vast experience at being woken in this most unpleasant manner and knew where I should head. The front door, down the main stairs and through the hall, should have been my destination. As a boy, I could have walked there without opening my eyes or really having to go through the necessity of waking up. Yet this time I didn't.

It is quite strange how one reacts to a crisis. Some of the coolest cucumbers can lose their head and struggle in a most underhanded way to save their own skin, occasionally at the cost of women and children. Others, sometimes the most selfish cads you could imagine, are capable of extreme heroics despite their own natures. In times of crisis, regardless of the heat or chill of our most recent interactions, my first instinct is to find Jeeves.

I would like to say it was pure concern for his safety that led to me throwing my legs out of bed and heading straight to his lair when the ear-splitting sound of the fire bell woke me, but I fear it is more true to say that by this stage, after years of having my life saved by one man, I have become accustomed to seeking him in moments of grave personal danger.

I made it through the hallways and down the stairs at a quick trot, pulling my dressing gown around me as I went. I even managed the difficult feat of tying the thing as I rounded the corner to the servants' quarters and saw Jeeves exiting his room.

Now, I would not say I'd spent a great deal of time imagining Jeeves in his nightclothes, as that's not the way to think of one's personal gentleman, but if the thought had crossed my mind, as such random thoughts from time to time do, I would have given even money that he wore a nightshirt to bed or, failing that, a pair of pyjamas in black or navy blue. Like the pyjamas, I would have estimated that his dressing gown would have also been of a dark, sombre shade, again favouring the idea of black or blue. If it was green, I would bet you pound for penny that it would have been the darkest shade of green available, the precise colour of a mighty fir seen at the witching hour of a moonless night.

I would not, for one moment, have considered that the man owned a meadow-green dressing gown covered with sky-blue swirls. If, by some vast stretch of belief, I was convinced that he owned a garment matching that description, I could never have imagined him wearing it.

I pulled up short and blinked a few times in case, without noticing, I'd breathed in a great deal of smoke and had started hallucinating. No matter how many times I blinked, Jeeves still stood there, wearing that satin monstrosity.

As I stepped closer, I noticed the collar of his pyjamas, peeking out between neck and lapels like a timid schoolgirl. The pyjamas not only agreed with the twirling bright green and blue of the gown, but had added their own touch of whimsy to the ensemble through orange piping.

I opened my mouth and made a horrified squeak.

"Yes, sir?" Jeeves ran a hand over his hair, settling the sleep-messed style into something more presentable.

I closed my mouth and stopped staring. "Your pyjamas, Jeeves!"

A man does not like to be woken from sleep -- especially not by a very loud bell ringing in the tranquil hour of night -- and have his pyjamas criticised. Many fellows would have glared and told me to go boil my head. Jeeves managed to contain himself to a cold, offended tone. "They were a gift from my Aunt Annie, sir."

"I take it this is the reason she isn't welcomed at your family occasions."

"One of many reasons, sir."

Once again, I had to tear my gaze from that gown and collar. A sight like that is eye-catching, to say the least. "I understand the power of an aunt and the importance of accepting the gift graciously, but why wear them, Jeeves? Why not hide them in the back of the wardrobe, never to be worn amongst god-fearing company?"

"That would not honour the spirit in which the articles were given, sir."

"I would say that a pair of pyjamas like that," and here I waved to draw his attention to the frightening sight before me, "could only be given in the spirit of extreme cruelty."

"Be that as it may, sir, one does wonder why you are here at this time of night."

"The fire bell went off. Surely you heard it?"

"Yes, sir. But I believe the customary reaction to hearing a fire alarm is to exit the premises as quickly as possible."

"Well, yes," I said, seeing his point, "but I wanted to check on you first."

Given our more recent discussions, I could see why that confession made Jeeves raise a brow. The most basic sense of decency, of human feeling, would dictate that I not bring the subject up. The type of understanding that we now shared, unpleasant though it might be, was not the type open to diplomatic bargaining. Talking about it would bring nothing but humiliation and embarrassment on both sides.

Beside that, there was also the issue of honesty to my words. One could argue quite well that I had gone to Jeeves' lair our of a sense of self-survival -- in that my survival would be more certain if Jeeves was by my side -- than out of misplaced affection.

I tried to add a different meaning to my concern. "The last time that blasted bell rang, I cycled eighteen miles and sat gingerly for a week. I thought it prudent to see if the bell was orchestrated by you, Jeeves, because, if so, I will hide in my room until the event is over. So the relevant question is did you or did you not, either directly or indirectly, cause the fire bell to ring?"

"Most assuredly not, sir," Jeeves said firmly.

"Well," I said, "I suppose anyone dressed like that would rather burn than ring the bell and have to appear before company. Come on. We'd better head out before Aunt Dahlia starts counting heads."

"Yes, sir."

We made our way, with full speed, to the back door and joined the congregation of night-attired yawners. Upon our approach, Aunt Dahlia fixed me with a beady stare and sharp smile. It was the way a vulture would smile at a man dying of thirst.

She spoke in a calm, sweet tone that sent shivers down my spine and left my toes quaking. Or that could have been the effect of standing on the wet grass. In all the excitement, I had forgotten to don my slippers.

"Bertie, dear, you didn't by any chance decide through your singularly unique use of logic, and complete lack of common sense, that sounding the alarm was somehow to the benefit of all?"

"No, Aunt Dahlia." I could see that any minute now she would start to call me Attila and imply that I brought nothing but disaster and heartbreak to all who knew me. It's quite untrue, but aunts do get these ideas. "I had nothing to do with it, old flesh and blood."

"Are you sure, dear?"

"Quite sure, Aunt Dahlia."

"If I find, Attila my darling, that you have reverted to your bell-pulling ways and not owned responsibility of this Hun-like act, I promise you that next time Waterbury drives me somewhere, we will make sure you are tied face-down on the driveway and merrily roll over you as we go."

Understanding my history at Brinkley Court and the one occasion that I did ring the fire alarm -- on the advice and urgings of Jeeves, I must point out -- Aunt Dahlia's assumption and subsequent threat was not entirely unwarranted.

"I assure you, dearest aunt of mine, that I was fast asleep in my bed when the alarm was run. As you can see, I am dressed only for bed and as cold as anyone else here."

She looked me over from head to foot, pausing at my damp and rather chilly bare feet. "Well, if you didn't ring the bell, who did?"

"I did, ma'am." From the back of the crowd of servants, a girl raised her hand. She stepped forward and I recognised her as Jane, the highly-strung housemaid -- Jeeves had called her neurotic -- who tended to jump a foot every time I come round a corner. She looked as if all it would take was one unexpected cough to make her bolt for the bushes. "There was smoke. From the kitchen, ma'am."

"Is everyone accounted for?" Aunt Dahlia asked, taking the attention from the flight-bound Jane and focussing on the relevant issue. She counted us out. "Tom, Angela, Tuppy and Bertie. What of the servants, Seppings?"

I looked over at the throng of domestic staff. Amongst a mass of brown, grey, well-worn white and ever-respectable navy dressing gowns and coats, Jeeves stood out like a tropical butterfly in a collection of cabbage moths. He stepped forward and conferred with Seppings.

"Everyone is accounted for, madam," Seppings said, "except for Messieurs Anatole and Facet."

I looked back at Jane. "You say the fire started in the kitchen?" I asked, a sense of foreboding settling around my midsection.

"Anatole!" Uncle Tom cried.

"Anatole!" Aunt Dahlia echoed, her voice carrying much further. "Quick, everyone, round to the back door. Waterbury, go and fetch the firemen."

Like a colony of ants being ordered by their queen, we followed her in an almost organised line. Apart from Waterbury, of course, who headed to the garage at double time.

In newspapers, house fires always burn across the eaves, flames licking up the curtains and dancing across the roof, trying to leap to the nearest tree and start an uncontrollable blaze. As we walked around the back, I watched for these signs and saw none. Rooms were dark, the occasional hallway was lit by electric bulbs and in a very anti-climatic manner, no flames climbed the building walls.

The only hint of danger came from the kitchen window. Being an old house, certain windows never quite close properly in Brinkley Court and the kitchen window was one of these. The closest it came to being closed was only having an inch gap. It was just wide enough to allow a stealthy entrance, if you grabbed the frame hard, jerked it up and down until the latch gave and then pulled outwards. Before Uncle Tom decided every thief in the area would be overwhelmingly attracted to his silver collection and had every window barred, I'd found it a good entrance to use when one has snuck out of the house and forgotten one's keys. A little bit of pulling, a push up to the ledge and a clown's roll forward over the bench, and you were good as gold.

But now, from between the bars, the window released a dark curl of smoke, like a smoker so tired he barely had the energy to exhale. Through the grimy glass and thick cloud, the fireplace -- or where I was pretty sure it would have been, since I was having trouble making out the corners of the room, let alone the details -- roared in burnished orange.

"Bertie, stop peeking through windows and get over here," Aunt Dahlia called out, voice carrying across the murmur of worried servants and possibly to the next three villages. "Tuppy, take some of the footmen to the garden shed and fetch some buckets. Make sure they'll hold water. Angela, help Seppings organise the servants. We'll need a line of them to the old well."

I have often wondered if Aunt Dahlia was a military general in a previous life. It would explain a great deal.

"And Jeeves and I, Aunt Dahlia? How can we help?"

She patted a maternal hand on my arm. "Be a good boy and go fetch Anatole for me."

"Yes, Aunt D-- Aunt Dahlia!" I exclaimed, seeing the flaw in her plan. "Anatole's in the kitchen."

"Yes, Bertie. I was aware of that."

"I'm not a fireman, Aunt Dahlia. I'm not even wearing slippers."

"I was aware of that, too, Bertie. I wasn't asking you to put the fire out," she said, as if such a suggestion was clearly ridiculous while her idea was completely sane. "I was asking you to pop into the kitchen, have a look, and lead Anatole to safety if you can."

"You're asking me to risk life and limb--"

She now looked like a general who'd been told his favourite regiment of guards had been surrounded by the enemy. Her face, usually hinting at a red tinge, was now screaming the colour clearly. It was not a pretty sight. "If you ever want another of Anatole's meals here, you will do as you're told, Bertie."

"I will not, Aunt Dahlia."

"I thought you were a Wooster!"

There was no cause for that. "I am, but--"

"But you will stand back and let your elderly uncle face down flames? You will let your frail aunt put herself in danger while you stand back worried for your own skin? Or your young cousin, perhaps? I'm ashamed of you, Bertie. I never thought you were such yellow, snivelling coward."

"I'm not, Aunt Dahlia."

"Then you'll do it?"

I sighed. Clearly, I was beaten. "I don't see why Tuppy can't do it."

"Once you've seen that fellow fearlessly charge into a scrum of ten rugby players without breaking his stride, you know that he could carry four wooden buckets up here at a good pace. The same could not be said of you, Bertie."

I thought about this. Tuppy has the solid arms and broad thighs built by years of rugby whereas I have the slimmer frame developed through years of book-reading, piano-playing and slow saunters through London streets. In matters of brawn, Tuppy's the better pick. "You have a point, aunt of mine."

She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Yes, I do. Now hurry up and get in there before the whole room catches fire and the situation becomes dangerous for you, Bertie."

"Very well. But if I end this night as a very crispy, overcooked piece of bacon, I will haunt Brinkley Court for the next thousand years. You will never get a decent night's sleep, Aunt Dahlia."

"Hurry up, Bertie, or I won't get a decent night's sleep tonight."

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I set my shoulders and walked to the back door. In some houses, the back door leads directly to the kitchen. In Brinkley Court, it actually leads to a corridor that has doors connecting it to the kitchen, to the servants' hall and further up, to the stairs leading to the servants' quarters. I tensed as I opened the door, imagining columns of fire lining the walls, but the corridor looked precisely as it had earlier in the day, albeit a great deal darker.

I hit the switch and the bulb flickered to life -- say what you will for Uncle Tom but he does believe in keeping the house up to modern standards -- weakly illuminating the hallway and the smoke sliding from the bottom of the kitchen door.

I pulled my sleeve down over my hand. A friend of mine had once said that when caught in a fire you should always pull your jacket over your hands and over your head. If you touched something hot or something dropped on you and you caught alight, it was a lot easier to remove your jacket than your head or hands.

Turning the knob, I pushed the door open and was met by a wave of smoke stronger than my own bad breath after Boat Race night, which is not a comparison I make easily. After a good deal of coughing and a quick step back, it cleared enough that I could make out the details, like watching a blurry, damaged film. On the east side of the room, the fireplace glowed brightly and the fire had spread outwards onto the heath rug. The rug was smouldering and looked to be the culprit for the vast amounts of smoke.

The fire had spread as if someone had smashed a bottle of instant flames on the stone floor, but the walls and the furniture seemed untouched, apart from the smoke. Something groaned, and I nearly jumped back again, fearing it was the roof collapsing but a hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"M Anatole, sir," Jeeves said, pointing through the smoke and pulling back the hand on my shoulder. Possibly I should have been surprised at his sudden appearance, but this was Jeeves. Jeeves always appears without a sound and precisely when you need him most.

I squinted through the haze and saw a bundled mass sitting against the bottom of the kitchen bench. It groaned again, and Jeeves and I hastened forward to pick the fellow up by his arms and drag him outside. It sounds much easier to do than it actually is, as Anatole cursed us in a variety of French and disjointed English, calling us several things I couldn't translate and generally digging his heels in.

But between the two of us, we managed to drag him outside and dump him by the house. Aunt Dahlia gave a whoop of joy and I took the deep, satisfied breath of a job well done despite a lack of quality air. Or I was gasping in a satisfied manner until Jeeves turned and headed back in.

Belatedly, I remembered Facet.

For a petty, uncharitable moment, I considered staying outside. It is not the type of thing one wishes to admit about one's own personality, but self-knowledge is a thing to be admired, and in that moment, I knew myself to be a bitter man. Then I considered that it was not only one unreasonably handsome man's life at stake but two, if something should happen to Jeeves, and I went in after him.

Resolving to act more like a Wooster and less like an Iscariot, I stepped through the doorway and strode to the kitchen. It was a great deal like last January -- when that remarkable cold snap and resultant coal-burning left the metrop. covered in a fog so thick that I walked past the Drones' doors three times before finding my way inside -- except an uncomfortable warmth had taken the place of the damp cold. Between the dark haze and the amber firelight, Jeeves was a striking figure amongst the moving shadows, his spine straight, broad shoulders ready and horrendous dressing gown darkened by soot. It was all quite poetic: the valet stood in the burning kitchen, ta-tum ta-tum ta-tum.

He bent over and I dashed to his side, fearing smoke inhalation had got the better of him and fate had conspired to slay the noble figure in his tracks.

When I reached out a hand to steady him, I saw the truth of the matter. He had found Facet, sprawled against the bench much as Anatole had been, and had bent to haul him up. Even in the murky half-light, a wave of Facet's golden brown hair fell rakishly over his forehead and his shapely lips were softly parted. If I had to help rescue the fellow, at least he could have the decency to look a little less attractive in the throes of distress. He should have been grimy and soot-covered, or drooled in his unconsciousness, head lolling back at a buffoonish angle instead of gracefully resting to one side.

We Woosters are men of courage and conscience. We do not kick attractive rivals when they are down, no matter how strong the temptation to bury the toe of one's boot into the yielding flesh of their torso may be. Beside the call of my better angels, there was also the consideration that I was currently bare-footed so a hearty, sharp kick at this opportune moment would barely leave a bruise. If one is going to be so unprincipled as to attack a fallen man, one wants the damage to be felt for a good week to come.

So I did not punt the blighter, but pulled his arm over my shoulder and helped Jeeves hoist him up. Unlike Anatole, he didn't stir. There was no cursing, no flailing of the feet; there was only a lifeless form between us, sagging like a Punch puppet with broken strings.

I had a sudden flash of sympathy for the goons in my novel. I mean, getting up the gumption to shoot someone point blank is a tricky business, but having to lug around dead bodies must really take it out of a chap. I couldn't imagine doing it for a living. (Then again, there are few things I could picture doing for a crust, so I'm quite thankful that my crusts come without gainful employment. All credit to the birds that work but I couldn't conceive of anything more tedious than having to do it myself.)

As we got to the back door, two charging footmen nearly ran through us but at the last minute ducked around us, buckets held high. We got outside and the same two came dashing out, buckets empty. They dropped the buckets to the ground, picked up two full ones, and repeated the process. Watching it was enough to tire any spectator.

Jeeves led us to the window of the servants' hall and we placed our charge -- who was as helpful as a bag of concrete-filled potatoes -- to lean against the wall. Jeeves knelt down and started unfastening his collar and the urge to give him -- Facet, clearly, not Jeeves, although I understand how hard it could be for a reader to keep track amongst the dramatic action -- a solid heavy heel to the midsection returned.

I was distracted from my less than charitable desires by Tuppy's angry whine. "Bertie, the kitchen window refuses to budge! Come over here and help."

As I said before, prying that window open from outside was a rarefied skill that I'd honed to perfection by the time I was seventeen. Getting it open now was slightly more complicated as the bars required careful navigation of elbows but it was still the work of a few moments. In the meantime, Tuppy and the energetic footmen had doused the fire to smouldering ashes, and once I slid the window frame open, they started fanning the smoke outside.

Wondering if, our parts done, Jeeves and I should go inside and assist the cavalry, I glanced over and felt my heart drop. While I'm far from an expert in human anatomy, I can attest that the organ formerly located in my chest sank to somewhere between my ankles and the soles of my feet. I'm not sure how it managed to continue beating and performing those vital circulatory feats from its new position, but it did.

Giving no thought for the sanctity of his aunt's gift, Jeeves had both knees on the dirty lawn and even worse, had his hands on Facet: one was wrapped around Facet's wrist -- a simple gesture that could have been interpreted as friendly and nothing more -- but the other grazed the side of Facet's throat and seemed far too intimate for company. I've seen friends do far more with a pretty girl, but when it comes to flouting social rules, the personality of the cove must be considered. School friends and club members who you've seen tight as an owl, pulling off formal costume for an early morning swimming race across the baths, tend not to shock when they pull a girl close and kiss her passionately. For a man like Jeeves, respectable to his core, such a public display of affection would be unheard of. To have him draped over Facet, hands on bare skin, was bordering on lewd. And it was far too telling.

It would not be hyperbole to say that I was shattered. I trust that after reading a few of my exploits, my readers would know I'm not a man prone to despair, but such a sight has a power that can barely be conveyed in words, unless those words were etched into large planks of wood and used to beat you to a jelly. It is demoralising in the extreme and while I am not used to running like a coward, on this occasion I turned on my heel and fled -- it was more of a quick trot, really -- in the opposite direction.

I hadn't thought of where I was aiming. In such cases one tends to focus more on what one is escaping than the precise destination and I ended up at the garage.

When I say that I was not used to fleeing, I was overlooking the summer of my tenth year, when I went through a stage of escaping and exploring. I'd recently read _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ and was quite certain that pirate treasure could be found amidst the English countryside if vigorously searched out. I developed the ability to sneak away from the house and stalk across the grounds, all the way to Market Snodsbury. For a little chap that's a hardy walk, so once there I'd buy sweets and lounge around the village common, resolving to start the treasure hunt proper in the afternoon.

Most of the time the chauffeur -- a friendly fellow, name of Rudd, with a taste for sweets that could outstrip a whole dormitory of boys and the broad, leathery hands of an orang-utan -- would spot me and offer to drive me back to Brinkley Court for the price of one boiled sweet, butterscotch or peppermint for preference. He was a good chap, the type who'd say 'Master Bertram' with a grin that signalled that, if it were proper, he'd be the first to call me 'Bertie, me lad'. Took corners at a much slower speed than Waterbury does, but he'd let me sit beside him in the front seat and, to a schoolboy, that's positively the larger thrill.

He even helped when my attempt to run away resulted in a far greater journey than expected. This happened years ago, you understand. One night I got the brilliant idea of chivvying out the kitchen window and hiding inside the boot of Uncle Tom's car. I was wily enough to take cheese and bread but hadn't considered the plan's fatal flaw, _vis-à-vis_ that a car's boot is not designed to be opened from the inside. Once ensconced inside and the lid closed, there is no easy catch to unhook and release, no simple button to allow an escape.

Being a stoic sort of chap, willing to roll with the punches and follow the flow of life's stream, I tried to open the boot and then settled down for a nap when the thing wouldn't shift. When the boot opened, I woke up to sunlight and a rather surprised Rudd. He helped me out of the automobile and explained that Uncle Tom had been called into London for the day and, as the trip from Brinkley to London takes a touch longer than a quick spin down to the village, Rudd was supposed to hang around and drive Uncle Tom home, so he couldn't sneak me back into the old homestead unnoticed.

He called Aunt Dahlia so she wouldn't worry, and that aunt of mine laughed so hard I could hear her cackling as I stood beside him in the telephone box, and said that she'd tried the same thing at my age, although it had apparently involved stealing my father's horse and Aunt Agatha's best coat. (I have since asked her about the event and was told firmly not to interest myself in the exploits of my respected elders. Aunt Dahlia, properly soused, would unbend enough to tell me about this, but after a youth of chasing foxes and managing hunting parties Aunt Dahlia has developed a high tolerance to spirits. By the time she is merry enough to tell tales of an undignified youth, I'm either snoring on a couch or so tight I can't remember a word the next day.)

The morning was spent wandering the London streets, getting cakes in a cosy teashop and then drifting towards Piccadilly Circus. I had been nine at the time, so my assumption that there would be a big top, acrobats, elephants and clowns can be forgiven. Although it didn't live up to my specific expectations, it did not disappoint.

It was a pity that I couldn't say the same thing for my current stay at Brinkley Court. I also considered it a pity that, due to the work of time and the wonder of nature, I could no longer curl up in the boot of a car, fall asleep and wake up far away from my troubles. There was nothing to stop me sitting in the two-seater and closing my eyes, but my thoughts kept returning, the image sticking closer than a brother to my imagination. I had looked away quickly, had not wanted to intrude upon a moment shared but I have always possessed a sharp, vivid mind's eye and it had no difficulty seeing the details my actual eyes had missed.

I could see Jeeves' face darkened with concern, his eyes narrowed and his normally cool gaze heated as he looked over the prone form of his beloved. I could picture Jeeves' cool fingers brushing over Facet's flushed brow, the movement slow and imbued with tender consideration, pressing back the untrustworthy waves of brown hair. I could imagine Jeeves' smile -- one of those small, quiet ones that occasionally skate across his features when we are alone, sometimes at the least appropriate times -- when Facet stirred and murmured Jeeves' name as he rose to consciousness.

I pushed my back straight against the seat and resolutely told myself that was enough. There was no need to imagine any further, to envision Gallic declarations of love or passionate embraces. It would be unseemly to think of one's employee in such terms, to speculate on a matter that is not only not any of one's business, but also not even near one's industry or market.

Forbidden or not, the images continued to come. Every affectionate gesture, every brief touch sank my stomach like a stone until I was left feeling that my heart was in my left foot and my stomach was in my right, and that my walk back to the house would squash both organs, leaving them bruised, battered and unfit for any purpose.

Bearing that in mind, it was quite apparent that the best thing for my continued health would be to follow my original urge and spend the night in the garage, far away from attractive tennis coaches and besotted manservants. I pulled my dressing gown around me tightly and stretched my legs across the second seat, and was just settling down -- either to sleep or have my brain conjure up ever more horrible visions of a smitten Jeeves, I'm not sure which -- when Aunt Dahlia thundered in.

She strode haughtily, and I scrambled to make sure I was presentable (in pyjamas and a dressing gown, one can never be certain). Then she gave a firm nod. "Good idea, Bertie. If you head into the village as quick as you can, you might be able to catch up to Waterbury before he gets the rouses the whole bally county."

"I wasn't going into the village, Aunt Dahlia." It was a ridiculous suggestion for a man still in his nightwear. "I don't even have my slippers on."

"Then why are you in your car?"

"Oh. Well." Here imagination failed me. While my mind's eye was exceptional at showing all the ways that Jeeves could demonstrate to the world who he truly treasured, the sight of an aunt in a nightcap was enough to make it stutter to a halt. "I mean, well."

"Stop blithering, Bertie. Considering how Waterbury takes a corner, you'll need every moment if you're to beat him and even then, I wouldn't take odds on you getting there. But at least you can head off the fire engine and let the firemen get back to their beds before daylight."

She stared at me for a long moment. I could have argued, could have scorned, but the weight of an aunt's stare makes me feel as if I'm still in sailor suits, instead of the man of iron will that I have become.

"Yes, Aunt Dahlia."

"You should get the doctor, too. Anatole, bless him, is talking about smoked salmon and bewailing the state of the kitchen, but there's a slight rattling cough that concerns me, Bertie. Better to be safe and all that."

"Yes, Aunt Dahlia," I said, and she stayed to wave me off as I drove the car out of sight.

I ran into Waterbury coming out of the village. Well, not literally ran into him but if he'd taken that left hand turn any quicker, I would have needed the doctor more than either of our injured Frenchmen and my poor two-seater would never have been the same. I relayed news of the doused flames and sent all but Dr Hudson back to their homes. It was a lucky thing the doctor was part of the local volunteers, since it saved Waterbury doing one of his infamous hair-raising turns and meant that by the time I'd walked back to my car and sat down, Dr Hudson was clinging for dear life to the passenger door as Uncle Tom's car blurred into the distance.

I supposed that, in such an emergency, having a chauffeur with a heavy foot and ambitious steering wheel is an advantage, but for my money, I'd choose Jeeves' serene driving style over Waterbury's any day. While death-defying thrills may be exciting, there is a limit to how much excitement a man can take on a daily basis.

The trip back afforded me time to think. Most of my thoughts revolved around my feet; a ten mile drive is a lot easier on the old frame than an eighteen mile bicycle ride but the metal ridges of the pedals were causing me some discomfort. To ignore one discomfort, I concentrated on another.

The question of Jeeves was a tricky one. Part of me wanted to believe that Facet was nothing more than a roving Casanova, a bounder who charmed and vanished, but I could not ignore the possibility that Jeeves -- a man who understood the psychology of the individual in a precise and insightful way -- had recognised something valuable beneath the highly appealing exterior. I would not go so far as to suggest a kindred spirit because I doubt a soul as fine as Jeeves' could ever find an equal, but he might have found a like mind, which was a disturbing, and in some ways terrifying, conclusion.

I could ban the match and act like a disapproving uncle, but on what grounds? And what was to stop Jeeves from mentioning, in a discreet and careful manner, the appeal of country living and the value of a change in employment? It would only take a careful word to Seppings and Aunt Dahlia would snap Jeeves up before the ink had dried on his letter of resignation.

If word should get to the Drones, the clamour for Jeeves would rival a herd of elephants thundering to the last good watering hole. There would be bids for his attention, contending offers of nights off and salary increases, and wild promises of sartorial power. I would be able to hear the din from Worchester.

While I would have the likes of Brinkley. I shuddered at the thought. Brinkley and his ilk of pressed-service servants made it known through word and deed that the sterling pound was their sole motivation. The noble spirit of feudal responsibilities had perished in their breasts -- if it had ever lived within them -- and one is left with the icy knowledge that it is only the thought of a quid that forces them to don bowler hat and play the role of valet.

Jeeves has never had this attitude. He would consider the implication insulting and approaches the topic of monetary gain as he approaches the idea of doorways. I am quite sure he uses both as necessary, but you would have to watch quite closely to catch him at the act, and he would no more discuss remuneration and costs than he would speak on the proper use of a door handle. I am quite sure he is paid a fair amount, but I passed my financial concerns into Jeeves' steady hands some years ago. I always find enough money in my pocket to cover a few meals out and a cab fare home and am quite happy to leave the tiring job of restocking that float to Jeeves.

Jeeves does a marvellous job of it. In fact, some time ago, he mentioned changing rates of interest and returns, and I took his word for the thing, signed where I was told and focused on the more important task of honing my putt for the upcoming Drones' tournament. Without Jeeves, I'm not even sure which bank I'd need to see.

That decided the matter for me. I resolved to keep Jeeves by my side. If that meant pitching in -- as I would for any chum -- and helping the desired happily ever after ending to rumble round, so be it. He was more deserving of that ending than many of the chumps I'd assisted over the years and if I wanted him to forgive my blunder in the garden and continue as both employee, confidant and, dare I say it, friend, I would treat him as one and put a fast stop to any petty jealousy on my part. He would have my utmost support and I would not, under any circumstances, give in to my urge to biff Facet square on the nose.

(The urge was very tempting but we Woosters are battle-hardened and decent to the bone. I would do the right thing by Jeeves if it killed me.)

I arrived back at the house not a minute too soon. The dull ridges had started to bite into the soft soles of my exposed feet and resulted in a most uncoordinated stumble as I trekked up the stairs to my room. Luckily, the halls were empty -- everyone seeing to Facet and Anatole was my guess -- so there were no witnesses to my graceless lurching steps.

I opened my door, intending to crawl between the welcoming sheets, and found Jeeves waiting for me. He was fully dressed, thank heavens -- after such a trip, I doubt I could have borne the added blow of seeing his pyjamas again -- but it was still a shock to see him. I would have assumed he'd be by Facet's side, carefully keeping vigil, possibly with Facet's hand clasped between his own as Facet smiled bravely into his eyes.

Instead of playing the concerned lover, Jeeves led me to the armchair and produced a shallow tub filled with warm water. The first dip of my big toe into the gently steaming water was nothing short of divine. Jeeves has a bit about souls standing ajar and welcoming the ecstatic experience. I've never been sure if my soul was ajar or not, but I welcomed the experience of soaking my bruised and battered feet and ecstasy was forthcoming.

I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. "How did you think of this, Jeeves?"

"When informed of your intentions to fetch a medical professional without appropriate footwear," Jeeves said, and looked over at my slippers, as if blaming them for the entire affair, "the necessity of hot water became apparent, sir."

"Then I thank you, Jeeves. While my whole self is always in your debt, my feet are singing your praises far and wide. If they could sing."

"Yes, sir."

Jeeves placed a warmed towel around my shoulders and made one of those rummy little coughs of his. I now know that it is his way of drawing attention to himself without interrupting, but during our first month together, I found myself searching pockets for a lozenge to offer him. I used to be susceptible to colds, especially in my days back at Eton, and constantly carried lozenges on my person but I'd outgrown both habits by the time Jeeves miraculously appeared at my front door.

When Jeeves feels the need to clear his throat, it is always worth paying attention to him. "Yes, Jeeves?"

Jeeves focused on a spot beside my left ear. "I believe that this might be an appropriate time to discuss the events of this evening, sir."

"Me lead-footing it down to Main Street, you mean?"

"I was thinking of events that occurred earlier in the evening, sir."

I nodded. Clearly, Jeeves had spent part of his time jigsawing the occurrences that led to the exciting drama. To tell the truth, I was more than a little curious as to how the fire had started. "Go on, Jeeves. Explain all."

Jeeves started. He did not do a double-take or swing his head around; he didn't let his jaw drop wide and show the whites of his eyes. But he did raise both eyebrows and allow the muscles of his cheeks to slacken slightly. I wondered what had surprised him so.

"Sir," he said and then cleared his throat again, returning his gaze to the headrest of my chair. "I regret to say that this evening's surprising proceedings caught me at a disadvantage and I behaved in a manner not entirely appropriate to the situation."

There he stopped and I was left gaping like a cod or possibly a halibut. Jeeves would know which fish I more closely resembled. "I'm afraid I don't follow your meaning, Jeeves. Perhaps a whisky and soda would shed some light onto that rather dark and hazy sentence."

"Very good, sir," Jeeves said, sprinkling a touch of relief into his tone.

While Jeeves prepared the w-and-s, I pondered. Contrary to his own assertions, Jeeves had seemed as in control of his faculties as a jockey on a prize-winning gelding. He had not panicked, had not run away and had not, as I had, considered leaving a man to burn.

Aha, I thought to myself as I saw the answer. Though I had glanced away quickly, Jeeves must have seen me notice him with Facet and was now -- in his overly cautious, respectable way -- feeling some shame at acting like that in front of his master.

I took the glass from his tray with a thankful wave. "I see your point, Jeeves, and I implore you to banish it from your mind. I am not the type of employer, nor the type of man, to hold such a thing against you."

"That is gratifying to hear, sir."

The man did not meet my eyes, still smarting at his supposed shame, and I felt a warm glow as I thought of my resolution to help him. A feudal spirit may be a boon to an employer but I suddenly saw, like Sir Drake rounding Cape Horn, that this rare, fine trait was bound to have a detrimental effect on an attempt to woo.

For a moment, I was tempted to share my intentions with Jeeves, to tell him that he could put his mind at rest because B. W. Wooster was about to champion his cause. Then I considered the way that some fellows can be downright ingrates when it comes to a helping hand in the romance area and take offence to a friend's charitable efforts. In this, I would take a leaf from Jeeves' own book and quietly arrange matters without informing him. I wasn't helping him in order to gain his gratitude, so there was no need to announce my objectives. If, being the sharp cove that he is, Jeeves later put the clues together and asked me, I would explain all and accept heartfelt thank-yous then.

I took a moment to imagine the grateful look in his eye when he discovered all. I might find that my next pair of argyle socks stayed in my drawer for more than two weeks. I might even be able to convince him to let me wear my new boater in Hyde Park.

I blinked and realised that Jeeves was once again using his impersonation of a distant sheep with a sore throat to gain my attention. "Yes, Jeeves?"

"Sir, with regard to recent developments--"

I cut him off before he could say any more. The matter did not require an apology and while I was all encouragement and support of the idea, I did not require any details. "I say, Jeeves, could you organise a picnic for tomorrow?"

"A picnic, sir?"

"Yes, a picnic. The idea of spending an afternoon in the forest appeals to me. We could spread cold left-overs across a warm blanket and sit about in dappled sunshine consuming a bot. of wine or two. It really is the weather for it, Jeeves."

"Indeed, sir. I believe we could take some of the chicken served at yesterday's luncheon."

"I think you mean today's luncheon, Jeeves," I said, clearly remembering the taste of that dish.

"Technically, as it is now after midnight, that was yesterday, sir."

"Oh, I see. Very well then."

Now, gentle readers, you may be questioning my new-found resolve to assist the Jeeves-Facet fling. Inviting Jeeves away for an intimate picnic for two is not the action of a graceful and defeated suitor. I agree with this, but during the drive back I had started to formulate a plan and the first step was this invitation. The second step, which I would implement tomorrow -- or today, I wasn't quite sure of which was which, but it would not be for a few more hours -- would be to invite Facet along too and phrase it as an opportunity to show him the countryside and to keep him far from Tuppy and Angela's idle hours. Then I would go for a walk through the trees and make myself scarce, allowing Facet the chance to sweep Jeeves off his feet, away from gossiping servants and curious eyes.

It was bound to work.

I was still convinced of its ability to work the next morning (or later that same morning, I'm still not entirely sure. Waking up in the middle of the night and driving down to the village, returning to change out of one's pyjamas into a soft shirt, as no other pyjamas had been packed, and then go back to bed tends to mess with a fellow's internal time-keeping), when I suggested that Jeeves stop in and check on Facet's health while I breakfasted. I hovered about Aunt Dahlia's study afterwards, helping myself to the books on her shelves for possibly an hour, and then made my way to Jeeves' lair.

He was ironing trousers with a little more flair than usual. Jeeves doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve and only occasionally wears it on his face, but watching him about his scut work gives a firm indication of his mood. An icy silence and restrained motions signal displeasure; an overly focused glance at an object and cautious care of the task show he's attempting to use that large brain of his to wrestle an insurmountable problem to the ground. A softening of the movements and a slow, tender approach to the job, as he was showing now, mark a contentment verging on happiness.

For the first week of Biffy's engagement to the now Mrs. Biffy, the former Mabel and the continuing Jeeves' niece, Jeeves displayed all these signs so I must assume that the match was quite welcomed amongst his kith and kin. Now, after visiting Facet and enquiring about his health on his employer's entreaty, Jeeves was showing those same signs.

It warmed the wotsits of my heart. There is a saying that a good deed is its own reward, and anyone who has felt the satisfied glow of helping a chum find a cheery ending will understand why I pushed the door fully open -- instead of the few inches I had been using to appraise Jeeves' mood -- with a smile. "Good morning, Jeeves."

Jeeves nodded and returned to his ironing board. "Good morning, sir."

"Everything set for this afternoon's excursion? Pics are picked, nics are nicked, all taken care of?"

"The pertinent arrangements have all been finalised, sir."

"Plenty of food, do you think?" I asked, wandering over to the small window. It afforded a view of the orchard and very little else. "Enough for three, Jeeves?"

"The kitchen staff do believe that generosity is only bounded by the limits of what can be packed within a picnic hamper, sir."

"Good, good," I said, staring out at the blue skies and clement weather. It was promising, that's what it was. "I thought that, given last night's escapades, it might be a jolly good idea to invite Facet along, Jeeves."

"Indeed, sir?"

There was a sharpness to Jeeves' tone that made me quite glad I hadn't shared my intended plans with him. Being a subtle creature, discreet to the end, Jeeves would be mortified at the idea of anyone guessing the lay of his affections, and a chap embarrassed is a chap likely to strike out at his nearest and dearest. Luckily, I have sat through many a luncheon with an aunt, and know that the best way to lie is not to meet their eyes.

Accordingly, I didn't turn around. "After a nasty dose of smoke inhalation, a good breath of fresh, country air might do him the world of good, Jeeves. There's also the chance to see the English countryside with someone who's grown up in the area and can share interesting anecdotes, combined with someone else who can interpret said interesting stories. It could make a nice afternoon."

"I am sure M Facet would appreciate your kind thoughts, sir, but there is the potential hazard that his current health may not allow it."

"Oh, balderdash, Jeeves. You said last night that they'd simply gasped a bit too much smoke and would be fine. Besides," I said, turning around to find Jeeves had finished the trousers and was now watching me in the way that a falcon watches a fieldmouse, "what standard of athletic prowess is needed to sit in a car, be driven to the countryside and then sit on a blanket?"

"A long journey can be quite tiring to a recovering body, sir."

"Then we'll make it a short journey, Jeeves. And he can use the blanket to have a nap between trips."

"Still, sir--"

"No, Jeeves," I said, firmly but kindly. One must respect that infatuation can cause the bravest of men to shy from the idea of being left alone with their paramour and will leave them keen to wrestle alligators rather than talk to a certain girl in front of mutual acquaintances, but there are times when the kindest thing is to cruelly force them to be discomfited. Jeeves has this bit about omelettes and eggs, and the same thing is true of self-respect and romance: you cannot have one without damaging the other. "I think this would be best for all. I'll trouble you to ensure Facet is invited."

I would have done it myself but my French is limited to asking for another drink and would not extend to knowing words like 'picnic'. I could have asked Anatole to use his strange combination of proper English and Brooklyn vernacular to interpret, but I doubted Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom would allow anyone else access to their treasured chef.

"Yes, sir," Jeeves said in a manner so coldly polite that I nearly stepped down and gave him his way. Were it not for the Wooster courage, and the thought of his grateful manner when he realised how I had aided this match, I would have stammered that he was right and given up my point. Instead, I gave him an encouraging grin.

"That's the spirit, Jeeves." Then, as one who has a sharp sense of knowing to the moment when I have overstayed my welcome, I left.

The standing arrangement was to meet at the garage at noon so I wandered the gardens until the appropriate time. While there, I ran into Tuppy who was eager to explain last night's events to me.

"Bertie, it was the wine." Here he gestured, throwing arms wide and I stared, adrift upon a sea of incomprehension. "Anatole and that blasted cousin of his were drinking in the kitchen, and one of them knocked over a wine bottle. It fell near the fireplace."

"Oh," I said, still adrift with no land in sight.

He frowned at me. "You remember at Eton, when Oofy and Barmy played catch with the 1909 Merlot? Oofy missed, the thing smashed into the fire and the back of Oofy's jacket was beyond repair."

"Oofy smelled like smoke for the next week," I said, remember the incident. It was the same smell that had somehow clung to me since last night. I had used a good dose of cologne but beneath that palatable, sophisticated fragrance, the aroma of burnt kitchen remained.

"Same thing happened here," Tuppy said, poking me with a ham-like finger. "The pair were drinking, got tight as owls, knocked over a bottle and then passed out. After that, all it took was one little spark and the floor was suddenly on fire."

"Let me guess. They were too soused to rouse themselves and put the fire out?" This is the precise reason that there is always a servant on the Drones' premises. Otherwise, the place would have burnt down years ago.

"Exactly, Bertie. Imagine what would have happened if that maid hadn't stumbled down there and rung the alarm."

"Uncle Tom's fear of burning to death in his bed might have been realised," I said gravely.

"Oh, forget Uncle Tom," Tuppy replied, grimacing in horror. "We might never have eaten one of Anatole's meals again."

I shuddered at the thought and on that dismal note, we bade our farewells. I approached the garage expecting my two-seater to be out and awaiting my arrival, but for some reason, Waterbury had substituted Uncle Tom's car. I have nothing personal against Uncle Tom's car other than the fact that I have known it since my youth. The seats remain overstuffed and, while the suspension tries its best to compensate for the hard seating, driving along any unpaved road leaves you feeling as shaken as a good martini.

Not to mention that navigating its gears can be trying at the best of times. It would not have been my vehicle of choice.

On the other hand, there would be three of us travelling, and the two-seater would leave me cramped and folded over in the back. Jeeves must have realised this and organised the larger car.

"What ho, Jeeves," I said, spying him around the back. He was lifting something into the boot, presumably our lunch. "Good thought to rustle up Uncle Tom's Jalopy. The back seat will be much more comfortable for me."

"I'm afraid that Jane and M Facet are already sitting in the back seat, sir." Jeeves was hidden behind the car, so I couldn't see if there was a quirk to his lips or not, but judging by the supercilious tone, I'd lay odds of twenty to one that he was looking quite self-satisfied.

I walked behind the car to test my theory. My money would have been safe. "Jane, Jeeves?"

"One of the maids, sir."

"I didn't invite Jane along, Jeeves."

"You did imply that it would be best if M Facet could have amusing and interesting narratives related by a native of the area, sir." Jeeves closed the boot with a firm, sharp push and then gave the car a satisfied pat. "Jane was born in the village and has lived in the surrounding countryside her entire life. I thought she was an extraordinarily appropriate match to your requirements, sir."

"I was talking about me, Jeeves."

"Indeed, sir?"

"I was the one to relate anecdotes. We didn't need a fourth party, Jeeves. I doubt the kitchen would have packed enough food."

"I did inform the kitchen of the number of personages attending your picnic, sir. They were good enough to pack a second hamper for us."

"Still, Jeeves, I had no plan of having a maid tag along."

"I am sorry, sir," Jeeves said, tilting his chin faintly. If I'd ever seen a man less sorry for his actions, I'd eat my hat. "If I'd realised that was not your intention, I would never have invited her."

Dash it; my plan had been quite simple. Now, due to Jeeves and his blasted maid, I'd need to ensure that not only was I far away from the romantic pair, but also that the girl was. The last thing Jeeves needed was a pair of gawking country eyes judging his every action and spreading stories through the servants' hall.

"If you feel strongly that her presence is unwelcome, it would be best that you told her quickly, sir, before her hopes for this afternoon's festivities become too fanciful and excited."

I stared at him balefully. "She's in the dratted car, Jeeves. I can't just go up to a girl and tell her that she was invited by mistake. It would be hurtful."

"It is a conundrum, sir."

"She will simply have to come," I said with a sigh.

"Very good, sir."

We walked around to the front of the car and I was so distracted by the thought of having to entertain a maid -- not any old maid, but Jane, who started if you looked sideways at her -- the entire afternoon, I nearly sat beside Jeeves in the front. I opened the door and stood up. "Oh, no, this isn't right."

Behind the steering wheel, Jeeves looked quite settled. "May I enquire as to what is troubling you, sir?"

I couldn't bally well tell him that the entire purpose of the trip was to force him and Facet together, and that having them sit apart for the journey there would start the entire thing on the wrong foot, so I improvised. "The suspension in this car is terrible, Jeeves. You feel every jolt if you sit up in the front."

Jeeves raised a brow. "You would prefer the back seat, sir?"

"I would, Jeeves. Ask Facet to swap with me."

"As you wish, sir," Jeeves said, and then turned around to ask Facet something in French and got an equally Gallic answer in return. Facet's shaking head told me what I didn't want to know. "M Facet says that he suffers from a form of motion sickness and would be highly uncomfortable in the front of a moving vehicle."

"Tell him that the fresh air will be good for him, Jeeves."

Jeeves did and again Facet's answer was negative. "He would not feel fit to travel, sir. Perhaps Jane would not object to switching places with you."

Jane, mouse that she was, squeaked. "I'd be fine with it, sir."

"Oh," I said, "thank you."

I got out and she got out, and we changed seats. Now, instead of sitting beside Jeeves, I was stuck beside Facet and the two were still parted. It hadn't improved matters.

"Are you ready to go, sir?"

I had to think quickly. "Not yet, Jeeves. I think I'd feel better if I were driving."

"Indeed, sir?" I would never say that Jeeves was scornful of his employer, but there are times when he comes close and this was one of those times.

The reason was simple: Uncle Tom's car may be kept in good condition and far more spacious for a group, but driving it is akin to driving a charging rhinoceros. You need to keep your wits about you or you end up running headlong over and sometimes into ditches, and leaving the road far behind. In matters of steering, it takes a lot of hard effort and the occasional grunt of exertion to force it around a corner.

I avoid driving it for that very reason. "I feel in the mood for a drive, Jeeves. Hop up and we'll switch places."

"If you are sure, sir," Jeeves said doubtfully, not moving from behind the steering wheel.

"I'm jolly sure, Jeeves," I said, climbing out of the back seat and waiting at the drivers' side until Jeeves slowly relinquished his seat. Once he was in the back, beside Facet, we departed.

The moment I pressed my foot to the pedal, I realised the drawback to the current seating arrangements. I had considered the vigilance required by the car's sometimes unresponsive steering wheel but had forgotten the way that my feet -- already abused by pedals less than ten hours earlier -- would object to being used again. The whir of the engine covered my minuscule hiss of pain as I eased the beast forward. In the rear-view mirror, I spotted Jeeves watching me, trying his hardest to mimic the aloof and slightly bored expression of the stuffed moose hanging over the Drones' fireplace. (The stuffed moose, nicknamed Nokes for obvious reasons, was not only a fixture of my club but also provided a bored chap the entertaining opportunity to throw hats, napkin rings and the sporadic pair of sock garters onto his antlers. These efforts were scored according to item, distance and difficulty of the angle.)

Jeeves did not utter a word. But he did so in a way reminiscent of Chuffy's first reaction upon seeing Barmy, after one of Barmy's gags had backfired and left Barmy with bright green eyebrows for a week. It was the silence of a man so full of mirth that he couldn't find words to express it.

Gritting my teeth, I pressed on the accelerator and ignored Jeeves' amusement. While the man himself is far from cruel, Jeeves' sense of humour can be callous at times. I have learnt, of course, that there is no point in reprimanding him for this failing; he may derive hilarity from minor insults to my form but he will always ensure that such embarrassments are borne for a reason and achieve a purpose.

In this case, the payoff was the conversation occurring in the back seat. Jeeves and Facet had bent their heads closer together and were chatting away. There was no such merriment in the front seat. Jane is one of those females who, regardless of her other talents, has not been blessed with the art of conversation. When asked if she's lived here all her life, she's inclined to say, "Yes, sir" and then let a suffocating silence fall. When asked her opinion of the place, she said, "Oh, I like it, sir."

While I consider myself quite the conversationalist, it's singularly hard to foster a chat with such an ungracious subject while gritting one's teeth and trying not to curse whoever decided pedals would be an important part of automobile usage. For me, the journey was tedious but for Jeeves, chitchatting pleasantly behind us, it was a different story.

Tedious was the best way to describe the entire outing, actually. The food was magnificent -- Jeeves and Jane both serving up while I poured wine and Facet did nothing more than hold glasses -- but the conversation dragged. I would remark upon the favourable weather and Jane would oh-yes while Jeeves translated to Facet and then translated Facet's oh-yes back. I tried telling a story I'd heard down at the Drones -- the one about a Frenchman, his daughters and a cow -- but having to wait for Jeeves to interpret every sentence ruined the rhythm of the thing. No one laughed at the end of it and Jeeves spent the next five minutes explaining why the pun was funny.

After the second glass of wine I had had my fill of the stifled conversation and entreated Jane to come for a walk with me. She had been a touch reluctant and Jeeves -- understandably nervous at the idea of being left alone with his inamorato -- had not encouraged the idea, but after using all the Wooster charm I had at my disposal, she assented.

Amongst the gently rustling trees and brindled sunlight, the warm breeze and sweet scent of wildflowers, the conversation flopped like a freshly caught fish and died gasping.

You will remember, dear readers, that my initial problem with the Basset was the way that we would end up echoing each other and standing in awkward silences. The walk with Jane was not much better.

"Nice breeze," said I.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Very pleasant," I said.

"Very nice," she said, and then we both dropped to stillness.

A wren sat upon a branch, singing in a joyful way that made me wonder if it shared Jeeves' general approach to comedy, and I pointed it out. In times like this, my suave sophistication deserts me. "Oh, look, a wren."

She looked hopelessly at me and then at it, and then back to me. "Yes, sir."

"I guess you'd get a lot of them around here. I mean, living in the country and all."

"They are quite common, sir."

"Very common?" I asked, clutching at conversational straws.

"Reasonably so, sir."

I could transcribe the rest of the horrifyingly dull conversation but pity for my readers stays my pen. It is enough that you understand that these moments were the highlight of our wander and that the interaction deteriorated from there.

I soldiered on as best I could and distracted myself from the damp laconism with the thought of Jeeves and Facet. I imagined them relaxing upon the blanket, Jeeves pouring another glass of wine each and the conversation becoming lazy and jovial. I allowed my mind to gambol further than was proper, thinking of how I would expect Jeeves to act if I was Facet, if you follow my meaning. I was in the middle of picturing Jeeves -- lying on his side, head propped up on one hand, other arm reaching out to brush a stray hair from my cheek -- when I tripped over an inconveniently placed root and twisted my ankle.

In such instances, one's first thought is usually for one's pride. Sprawled across the ground, gaze level with some girl's calves, one's first instinct is to reassure all and sundry that you are perfectly fine and scramble to one's feet. I did this, and then let out an almighty yelp at the pain and ended up tumbling into Jane. Stronger than she looks, Jane was able to support my weight for a moment but then I tried to stand and she tried to step, and we both tumbled to the ground.

There was a slight scuffle as we untangled limbs, leaving both of us a touch messy, and then she stood up, face flaming, and made a beeline for the trees, mumbling something about getting help. A nobler, braver man than myself would have stood up, endured the pain, and walked back to the car. A determined man would have crawled on hands and knees, and have inevitably ruined his suit as he did so. I, on the other hand, sat against a tree trunk and waited for Jeeves.

It wasn't a long wait. Jane and I had been gone an hour, but we'd been walking quite slowly and I'd just managed to drag myself upright -- using the branches of the birch behind me -- when Jeeves arrived. I can now state with absolute assurance that Jeeves can step on twigs and dried leaves, and still not make a sound.

"Ah, Jeeves," I said, pleased to see him but quite aware of the way my foot had started to throb like a bass drum keeping beat. "Perhaps you could lend a hand?"

"Certainly, sir," he said and glinted to my side. "If you were to place your arm around my shoulders, I believe we could make it back to the car."

"As you say, Jeeves."

For all the tediousness of the walk there, the hop back was twice as arduous and twice as long. The dips and bumps of uneven ground are easy to navigate with two legs but when hopping, losing one's balance becomes a constant threat. Jeeves was quite placid about the matter, tightening his arm around my back as needed, but we were only a third of the way back when I was ready to admit defeat.

"Stop, Jeeves," I said, and my man faithfully did so. "It is warm weather, the nights are mild and I am quite sure that if you would be so good as to fetch the picnic blanket and leave me the remains of the picnic for dinner, I could spend the night here."

"I could not advise it, sir."

"Why not?" I said, turning quickly and needing to steady myself with a hand on his arm. Thankfully, Jeeves wrapped his other arm around my waist and helped me stay upright. For a moment, I thought of how this would appear to a casual onlooker -- his arms around my back, mine around his shoulders -- and felt my face start to heat. I glanced down, hoping Jeeves would not notice.

"The most common way of easing the pain and discomfort of a twisted ankle is to apply ice to the swelling, sir. If you were to spend the night in our current surroundings, there would be no reliable way to transport the required ice here or to ensure that the limb remained raised and cooled appropriately. It would be best to return to Brinkley Court and treat the injury as soon as practical." He spoke so evenly that I was sure he had not perceived my momentary self-consciousness and I raised my head as he added, "If the pain is too great to continue in this manner, then perhaps another method should be considered."

"I did consider crawling, Jeeves, but it would ruin these trousers completely. I am quite sure that if you leave me that extra bot. of wine, the pain will not bother me at all. I will sleep like the dead, and in the morning--"

I paused, and Jeeves raised an eyebrow. "Do you intend to walk back to Brinkley Court, sir?"

"Well, no. I thought that you could come and pick me up. I'm sure I could walk to the road, Jeeves." That is the problem with Jeeves' eyebrow raising: it makes quite logical, sensible plans seem rather silly when you stop and think about them. "To be honest, I don't see any other way."

"In the haze of distraction that physical distress inevitably causes, sir, I believe one option may have been overlooked."

"And what's that, Jeeves?"

"That with a damaged leg, the quickest and most effective way to move you from here to the car would be one that did not require you to walk, sir. In this case, the most logical solution would be for me to bear you to the automobile."

I stared at him. "You mean lift me aloft and carry me through the wilderness? Jeeves, I think I would prefer to continue limping."

"If you insist, sir," Jeeves said, his face quite devoid of any agreement. "Judging by our current rate of travel, we will reach the car by sunset if we take the shorter route, which sadly lacks an even plane or a downward slope."

"Oh," I said, not keen on the idea of playing hop-a-long all the way back to the car and part of me far too keen to clamber into Jeeves arms and hold on tight as he saved the day. It occurred to me that a true _preux chevalier_ would have no doubts about this choice, and would selflessly struggle onwards and upwards. While I have always taken great pride in acting like a knight of old, there is something about Jeeves' steady presence that makes it difficult to do what is right and so very tempting to act as I shouldn't. I consoled myself with the thought that at least this way, one of us would still act as a knight saving those weaker than him. "Very well, Jeeves."

"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said, bending at the knees and scooping me up. I have seen Jeeves carry the occasional extremely sozzled acquaintance of mine, and he always does so over one shoulder. I believe it's called a 'Firemen's lift', probably because it leaves a strong man able to descend a ladder. I had expected Jeeves to lift me in the same fashion, but instead he hoisted me in front of him -- an arm beneath my knees, an arm beneath my back, that type of thing -- and I felt like some heavily made up heroine, carried from danger by her sheik.

Except, of course, my sheik was less in the way of flowing white robes and more inclined to bowler hats and sacque suits, and his lines of dialogue had nothing to do with carrying me to my noble steed.

"Perhaps it would be best if you removed your cap and held on to it, sir. Otherwise, we face the risk of a stray branch purloining it as we pass by."

"Very good, Jeeves," I said and tucked the article of headwear between my shirt and sweater vest.

Once I had both arms around his shoulders -- deciding that if Jeeves was determined to play the heroic lead for this rescue, I was entitled to luxuriate in the experience -- and my head tucked against his neck, Jeeves was off at a steady, smooth stroll. I should not have been surprised that Jeeves could carry a man without any noticeable change in stride or respiration, without the occasional jar of a wrongly placed foot or the annoyance of flicking branches. Jeeves aptitude towards stealth served him as well in nature as it did upon carpet.

I won't deny that I took a certain amount of pleasure in the strong warmth of Jeeves' arms and the unyielding press of his starched collar against my cheek. I also found myself noticing the brawn of his shoulders beneath my hands and will even admit to sliding my right hand across an inch in order to rest my thumb upon the exposed skin of his neck.

In this fashion, the jaunt back to the car passed far too quickly for my liking. Jeeves posited me in the front seat -- passenger's side, not driver's for good reason -- and I was loath to release him. Heart pounding in my chest and all that, I forced myself to speak.

"Jeeves," I said, as he was still bent over me and in the process of reclaiming his arms from beneath me.

He paused and pulled his head back enough to spare me a sombre, searching glance. "Sir?"

"Well, I mean--"

There was a rustle behind Jeeves as Jane and Facet stepped out of the trees. This brought several unpleasant facts to mind: firstly, the existence of those other folk, whom I had completely forgotten; secondly, the existence of Facet in particular and his claim to Jeeves' affections; thirdly, that I myself had no such claim and had already been refused; fourthly, had we not been interrupted, I'd been about to be refused again; and finally, that I still had my arms locked around Jeeves. I pulled back the offending limbs and resolved to keep a more careful control over my unrequited infatuation.

If I wanted Jeeves to continue to fish me from the soup, I needed to be far more judicious. I couldn't throw my adoration around like a child throwing pebbles at the beach and expect Jeeves to stand around and submit to being pelted.

Jeeves turned to the rest of our party and confirmed that the picnic had been packed away. Jane, showing a tender practicality that I had not suspected, folded up the blanket and placed it under my left foot -- the one with the sprained ankle -- to cushion it against the shuddering suspension. I thanked her kindly and was greatly appreciative once Jeeves started the car and the juddering vibrated straight up my spine.

In the back seat, Facet and Jane looked as if they were playing an enclosed game of charades, attempting to discuss something about the seasons. Beside me, Jeeves drove with the steady, reassuring care I have come to expect from him, so I settled the cap back on my head, pulled it down over my eyes, and sought sleep.

I was restless at best, but closing my eyes, propping an arm out the window and leaning against the door was similar to the sensation of being upheld by Jeeves -- in the way that holding a seashell to your ear is similar to standing on a warm, sun-drenched beach in the Mediterranean -- and it helped the journey pass.

Back at the house, we found Tuppy and Angela talking on the front steps, so while Jeeves returned the car to the garage and Angela went to fetch Aunt Dahlia, Tuppy helped me up to my room and forced me to hop every one of those stairs. It was a less than delightful experience, but far easier on my self-restraint than having Jeeves carry me to bed.

Aunt Dahlia, a veritable magus when it comes to the subject of bruises and falls, poked, prodded and pronounced it a minor sprain requiring bandages, ice and a good vacation from weight-bearing. Ice was brought, bandages were wrapped and I was confined to my room upon danger of one of Aunt Dahlia's more imaginative threats. Seeing as I enjoyed all four limbs in working order, I complied readily.

I didn't comply so readily to Tuppy telling me -- after Aunt Dahlia left -- to pull my head in.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, with a suitable amount of outrage. When one has been recently injured, threatened by aunts and carried by menservants, one doesn't deserve abuse from friends. "Explain yourself, Tuppy."

"Explain yourself, Bertie," he replied with pique. "Explain inviting a maid to walk with you, all alone, for over an hour and returning to the house with her hair messed and leaves caught on her dress."

It is something quite peculiar about country houses. In the metrop., there are more activities and parties to attend and people have less time for idle gossip. In the more pastoral areas, there are no such distractions so household tittle-tattle travels at the speed of light or sound, whichever is quicker.

"We went for a stroll after the picnic. I tripped and fell on her."

He shook his head as disappointed as a vicar finding the altar boys stealing from the collection plate. "Oh, Bertie. Even Bingo would have a better cover story than that."

"It's not a story, Tuppy, it's what happened."

"Bertie, after all the years we've been friends, to think of you lying so shamelessly." Again he shook his head. If I'd been upright, a good foot taller and of heavier build, I would have shaken that head clean off his shoulders. "We all know what you're like. This isn't fair to her."

I sat up on the bed and tried to glare my displeasure at him, but it's quite hard to be intimidating when surrounded by pillows. "And what am I like, Tuppy?"

"You go through girls the way Boko goes through pens." Boko Fittleworth, a chap described as a colourful character only by those who like him a great deal, had a habit of buying new pens and constantly losing them. I have no idea where the pens went, since Boko spends most of his time at the races or at the club and neither has shown a marked increase in writing implements, but they disappeared nonetheless.

"I do not!"

"You do, Bertie. And while it's fine when it's Honorias and Florences, when it's girls from good families and responsible parents who will put every effort into seeing their daughter better matched, trying to draw the affection of a servant is beyond the pale. It's not cricket."

"Hmph!" I said.

"Angela will have a fit if you get one of the maids in trouble and scupper off before vows are exchanged."

"Tuppy!" I let my voice show how scandalised I was by this underhanded insinuation. "I have never in my life treated a girl in such a way."

"How many girls have you been engaged to, Bertie?" Tuppy asked and before I could answer, he added, "And how many of those have you married as promised?"

"I never once broke my promise," I retorted. "On each occasion, the girl changed her mind."

"And when it comes to a maid marrying into the family, do you think it's likely that she'll change her mind?"

My shoulders slumped at this unforeseen calamity. While there were a good number of bridges I'd be willing to cross for the sake of Jeeves' happiness, marrying a girl who jumped when I entered the room was not one of them. I couldn't recall saying anything that suggested marriage -- and our conversation had not been wordy enough for me to prattle about it and then forget -- but females are strange creatures. Just as you relax and consider them a friend, they're suddenly telling parents about upcoming marital bliss and planning wedding bouquets.

After a horrified moment, I managed, "It would be an advantageous match from her perspective."

"Precisely, Bertie--" but he got no further than that because Angela burst into the room at the speed of gossip in a provincial house.

"Bertie." She looked straight at me, her battle lanterns lit. "Jane is talking of engagements."

"Not to me, I hope." It was not the most charming of answers, but I had been caught off-guard.

"She hasn't announced it yet or stated the name of her betrothed." It was not a sentence that should have held a great deal of threat, but you must imagine it growled -- a little like a Doberman, a little like an Aberdeen Terrier -- with particular menace and then you will understand why I cringed away from my sweet cousin. "Tell me you did not, in your fumbling, accidental way, propose to one of our maids."

"I didn't," I assured her quickly, shifting backwards as far as the bed would let me, which was not far at all. "I swear upon our bonds of cousinly affection that I didn't."

"And I swear," she muttered, advancing upon my recumbent form, "if you have misled the poor girl and intend to withdraw your offer and leave her heartbroken, I will fetch Mummy's shotgun and make her well aware of the facts."

A discreet, quiet cough interrupted.

"Yes, Jeeves?" I asked, overwhelming thankful for his sudden appearance.

"If I may elucidate the current situation, sir?"

"By all means, Jeeves," I replied. Angela nodded and Tuppy made similar 'go on' noises.

"I believe that Mr Glossop and Miss Angela are not acquainted with the full facts of the matter. The engagement that Jane spoke of is not to Mr Wooster but to M Facet, and was only finalised after our return. To ensure both parties were fully aware of the implications and consequences of the proposal, I was enlisted to interpret the proposition and its favourable reply."

"I wondered what kept you," I thought aloud. "It doesn't usually take you so long to park a car, Jeeves."

"I handled the matter in the most timely manner possible, sir," Jeeves said without a hint of apology. "Such triumphs rarely consider the ambling pace of time."

"Oh, Tuppy," Angela said, in that soppy way of engaged girls everywhere. "We should go and congratulate them."

"A charming idea, Miss," Jeeves said, proving that, despite her infrequent urge to threaten me, Angela has retained a fond place in Jeeves' feudal heart. "I'm sure the happy couple will appreciate your thoughtfulness. They were in the rose garden when last I saw them."

"Pip pip, Bertie," Tuppy called out as Angela dragged him from my room and out towards the newly engaged.

"Pip pip," I called back, refusing to hold a grudge over the ungrateful way he had spoken to me earlier. As much as Tuppy reveres the old Etonian spirit, when it comes to Angela, childhood loyalties fly away on the breeze. It's no good holding it against the fellow; you might as well hold the fascination with newts against Gussie.

I glanced across and found Jeeves watching me, looking amazingly serene considering the circumstances.

"I say, is there a secret to your constant equable disposition? You seem to be taking this engagement in a very calm manner, Jeeves."

"It was a resolution most heartily wished for by both parties, sir."

"That's all very selfless and noble, Jeeves, but I must confess I'm at a bit of a loss."

"Indeed, sir?" Jeeves asked, placing a pillow beneath my foot. He shimmered beside me and started arranging pillows behind me as well. "I endeavoured to provide satisfaction and, while it did not occur precisely the way I had anticipated, I believe it has ended in an acceptable way for all involved."

"Well, yes, everyone else seems happy," I admitted. It reeked of injustice and a general rotten deal for Jeeves, and I felt quite indignant on his behalf. I leaned back on the pillows -- high enough that I was caught halfway between sitting upright and lying supine -- and folded my arms. "But I don't like it."

"No, sir?"

"Not one bit, Jeeves."

Jeeves gave me a long look, raising his chin slightly as he is wont to do when something particularly illogical has occurred. "Do you have a specific objection to the match, sir?"

"Not to the match itself, Jeeves, but the circumstances. When did you discover Facet's feelings in the matter?"

"During the second day of our stay here, I walked in the gardens with M Facet and he shared his plight with me. If you recall, sir, I shared the matter with you that afternoon, explaining his attraction towards a member of the household staff, and you implied that the details were already familiar to you."

"Well, yes, but you were talking about--" And here the old Wooster grey matter sprang into action. Jeeves had mentioned a representative of the domestic staff but he'd never stated a specific name. "You were talking about Jane!"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh," I said, seeing the error of my ways. All the time I had spent worrying about Facet's interest in Jeeves -- and vice versa -- had been futile. Facet had never been interested in Jeeves. I felt as though the ingredients to a Bertie Wooster cocktail would be a splash of nin, a touch of com, and a hearty dash of poop.

Jeeves did not frown but there was a touch of tension around the hairline area. "You did indicate your understanding of the matter, sir."

"I did understand, Jeeves. I simply understood incorrectly. I understood all the details other than the identity of Facet's paramour."

The touch of tension increased and the pale shadow of a crease appeared between Jeeves' eyes as he wrinkled his nose. The last time he had looked so confused at my words was when I had tried -- with less than successful results -- to induce him to approve my moustache. "Where did you think his interests lay, sir?"

I considered lying and trying to save my dignity, but it would have been a lost cause. Jeeves' ears are as sensitive as an aunt's when it comes to mistruths and deceptions. I could have lied but I am quite sure he would have discovered the facts eventually and it would probably happen in a far more embarrassing way. Better to have the matter over and done with now.

But that didn't mean I had to meet his eyes when I said it. "You, Jeeves. I thought his interest lay in you."

There was a long moment where Jeeves was quiet, quiet as only Jeeves can be, quiet as a cemetery in the middle of an unnaturally still night. "And my affections?"

"Jeeves?" I queried, not comprehending what the question actually was.

"You assumed that M Facet's affections lay in my direction, sir. What did you assume to be my feelings on the matter?"

I shrugged, then scratched the back of my neck, feeling as though I were standing in front of Mr Thistledown again, having to explain what happened to the class's frog. It was a sensation of impending doom. Quite strange, because Jeeves probably wasn't the sort to tender resignation over something as mild and harmless as an employer's prying, nosy suppositions. At least, I desperately hoped he wasn't.

"I assumed Facet's feelings were reciprocated, Jeeves."

"Indeed, sir?"

"He is frightfully attractive, Jeeves. According to Angela, he's sweet and charming and many other delightful things. It would not surprise me if half the population of Brinkley Court were head over heels for the chap, and--" I winced, trying to explain a not particularly prudent assumption. "And he really is frightfully attractive."

I dared a glance up at Jeeves but the outlook was not promising. Jeeves looked extremely blank, frozen in ice or possibly captured in marble, and the only sign of life was the occasional blink.

"I know they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Jeeves, but a beholder would have to be blind not to see that beauty. And while I admit that my meddling may not have brought the best results -- I should have stepped back and let you orchestrate the entire affair -- it was derived from the best intentions and I truly thought--"

"Sir," Jeeves said in a rummy way, so I stopped, but he didn't continue.

An uncomfortable shroud of silence descended on the scene.

"Let me assure you," Jeeves said, speaking at less than his usual soft, polite volume, "that neither of those supposed affections are, nor have ever been, true."

"Understood, Jeeves," I said quickly.

I wondered if this would be the time to abjectly throw myself on his mercy and apologise earnestly. As I've said before, Jeeves does put a great deal of stock in the psychology of the individual and knows, as much as I do, that I tend to be more comfortable apologising through gestures than through words. Words themselves are quite difficult, especially when you try to talk about the mushier, softer feelings; I tend to get uncomfortable about it all and end up tripping over my tongue and saying things the wrong way around. It's far easier to acknowledge that Jeeves was right, or that I acted badly, through the sacrifice of some beloved liberty -- such as my freedom to remain in London and refuse to travel -- or a cherished article of clothing.

The problem, of course, is that my wardrobe currently meets Jeeves' standards of staid respectability, and Jeeves is not hankering for a holiday to anywhere in particular at the moment.

"Jeeves," I said as dread dragged its icy fingers down my spine, "is there anything I can do to make up for this blunder?"

Jeeves gave a short shake of his head but there was a pause before he spoke. "No, sir."

I slumped back into my pillows and let my expression drop to the level of the cellar. My Aunt Charlotte used to say that I was my own worst enemy, that if I only thought before I acted my life would suffer less calamity and enjoy more contentment. I was beginning to think she was right. This was entirely my own doing. I had been the one to fall for Jeeves and I had been the one to make the situation awkward by mentioning the fact and giving him no choice but to refuse. Then, when the fellow had shown extreme generosity of spirit and had continued to be in my employ, I'd messed the whole thing up by interfering where I had no right. If Jeeves left, it would be no one's fault but my own.

"You must realise, Jeeves, that there was no malicious intent to embarrass or catch you in an unwanted situation. I thought it would be for the best. You deserved to have someone help you for once, and I thought that some distant day you'd be pleased, or grateful, or something else, something completely different from mortified and angry."

"I am not, sir."

"Well, no, Jeeves, I wasn't suggesting that you were but that was how I'd hoped it would finish up," I said, adding hopefully, "I swear I won't interfere again."

"I believe you misunderstood, sir," Jeeves said in that quiet, impassive way. "I was not displeased by your actions."

"Really, Jeeves?"

"There are very few who would have acted so under such a belief."

"Oh," I said, feeling like a singular type of idiot. A singular idiot who could be relied upon to mess things spectacularly, according to Jeeves; to him, I was a well-meaning blunderer who would always do the worse thing and couldn't really be blamed for it. "Well."

Jeeves said nothing, so I contributed another "Well," for good measure.

"Well," I said again, this time paying great attention to the third button of my jacket. Buttons can be jolly interesting things, especially when compared to the current alternative view. "I suppose you'd better mosey downstairs and make sure the kitchen staff know to send dinner up here for the foreseeable future."

"I believe Mrs Travers would, by now, have informed them of your current predicament, sir."

"Still, Jeeves," I said, admiring the precise stitches of my buttonholes, "better to err on the side of caution, what?"

Time stretched like the last stanza of an oft-copied poem and I feared that Jeeves would say something terrible. What, precisely, I'm not sure, but I had an anxious premonition that horrible words would be freed and my last memory of Jeeves would be listening to this dreadful phrase while I sat there, unable to meet his gaze but watching his dark, pinstriped trousers from the corner of my eye.

I held my breath but the rush of the guillotine blade was stayed by Jeeves' cool voice.

"If you insist, sir."

I did not look up until long after Jeeves left the room.

Some might say that my situation had not considerably worsened during the last twenty minutes, but there are some that would describe Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps and Boko Fittleworth as impressive young men. I have always found there to be a certain percentage of the population who will believe, and tell you, utter rot.

The inexperienced, outside observer might find no cause for my blackened outlook but I could find ample reason. Knowing Jeeves preferred a Gallic paragon of comeliness to myself was quite understandable; there was a slightly different meaning inferred when there was no rival. It was no longer a case of Jeeves having found a more suitable paramour.

There was nothing else for it but to admit the truth. It was not that Jeeves yearned for anyone else, not that Jeeves' heart was already tethered to another. It was that Jeeves...

This was the clanger -- the depressing thought undid me -- and here it was: Jeeves did not want me.

Now, now, gentle readers, I can already hear the objections from the penny seats. You are right that neither motive changed the end result. Whether he liked another or disliked me, the conclusion to the tale would be the same: irrespective of how much I longed for him, Jeeves would never be mine. I don't dispute that. But the difference of being disliked in relative or absolute terms is a matter of potential: potentially, given the ideal surroundings, I had thought Jeeves possible to attain. Now I saw it had always been folly.

I'd thought myself outclassed, if you will, in the competition and then found myself ineligible for entry. This sort of thing can hit a chap fairly hard. It was as if Fate had laughingly pushed me off a bridge and it wasn't until the last moment that I realised I wasn't diving into a shock of cold water, but hurtling towards a dry and stony riverbed.

It was not a pleasant sensation. And I wasn't particularly pleasant about it. Normally one to see the ounce of silver in every cloud, I made no such effort that evening. Neither charming nor talkative, when family and friends dared to interrupt my half-hearted reading and wholehearted brooding, I was terse and sullen. Jeeves, regardless of how little he deserved such treatment, bore the brunt of my bad mood by dint of being the one to spend the most time in my room.

Every time I glanced up, he would be hovering. First, near my wardrobe, folding away clean garments; then, in the bathroom, tidying every little item, ensuring everything was in its place and perfectly aligned. I would try to focus on my novel -- death defying heroics usually require less concentration -- and look up, and there he would be, perfectly untouchable and innocuously busy. It's enough to drive a fellow to distraction.

At first, I thought that the over-reaction was my fault entirely, then I saw that despite Jeeves turning his back to me, he was using the mirror to watch my reactions. He looked stern and disapproving, which may have been a fair response to my strong attack of the doldrums, but I was in no mood for speaking glances and silent disapprobation. In a fit of pique, I gave him the night off.

Left with my own company, at least I knew that the only one scowling at me was my reflection. It didn't take me long to douse the light and attempt to sleep.

The next morning I woke up much the same -- with the fatalistic, despairing anger of a caterpillar crawling out of its cocoon to find a robin perched above it, licking its beak in preparation for a well loved delicacy -- yet it is amazing how a few days' absence can reinvigorate those old fond feelings. But I get ahead of myself.

Even in the midst of such bitter sentiments, there remains the tiny voice of reason. This voice, the siren song of one's better angels, pops up at inconvenient times to remind us of our foibles. It was this that told me, despite the hurricane of general bad feeling I bore against all who crossed my path, that I'd regret acting this way towards Jeeves and that if I could not control my bad temper, it would be best to minimise our interactions.

Jeeves, for reasons known only to him, did not show the same sense demonstrated by the rest of the household -- who took their leave of me as speedily as basic decency would allow -- and continued to find tasks in my room that needed to be done. Even suggesting -- or outright stating -- that my sock drawer was under no vital need for rearranging at this particular moment only made him incline his head, mutter "Yes, sir," and start on some other unimportant article.

Well, what was a chap to do but mutter, "Right ho, Jeeves," in a stinging way and retaliate with a proclamation that he would not be dressing for the day?

I am not one to condone such extreme behaviours -- as much as my pal Rocky may be the salt of the earth and an amazingly decent chap, his habit of not dressing for dinner is only barely permissible within the wilderness of his cabin life and would be shameful in company of any kind -- but I wished to be left alone with my grievances.

Jeeves stilled for a moment, and I saw that the shot had hit its mark. I was torn between a regretful urge to apologise for such a brazen statement and the desire to up the ante of disreputable behaviour until Jeeves vacated himself from my presence. It struck me that I was being awfully unfair to a man who had, if judged by his actions and intent, done nothing wrong.

Angela's uncle on her paternal side, a fellow by the name of Cecil Travers, would see nothing wrong with my behaviour. It is the approach that he uses frequently with attractive maids, much to the scandalised gossip of the family. It has got to the stage where Aunt Dahlia has conspired with the fellow's butler to ensure that no maid under twenty-five years of age or with the faintest hint of a pleasing smile is ever again employed. If a fellow known for cornering his staff and suggesting lascivious, lecherous things -- and giving them the old heave-ho if they don't agree to said acts of lascivious lechery -- is the only voice that would agree with the way one is acting, one is acting in a decidedly rotten manner.

"Hold that thought," I said, capitulating. "The situation is not so dire as to necessitate the abandonment of civilised manners, Jeeves."

Barmy used to have a theory that if you spend a great deal of time around one person, you start to sound like them. I always thought this was simply one of Barmy's more balmy ideas, but for a moment I felt as if Jeeves had hovered in my room for so long that I was starting to sound like the cove.

"Very good," Jeeves said, moving to my wardrobe, clearly convinced that haste was needed to ensure the young master did not change his mind and follow the example of certain Long Island poets. "Shall I lay out our grey flannel trousers, sir?"

"I'd say so, but no shoes. Between this ankle and my Aunt Dahlia, I think shoes would be taken as a sign of guilt. The brown vest as well, Jeeves."

"If I may, sir, I believe the navy vest may be better suited to the situation."

"I don't think there's a dress code for spraining one's ankle, Jeeves."

Jeeves inclined his head, admitting my point. "True, sir, but the navy garment is a softer, lighter weave, better suited to the relative warmth of a day spent indoors and likely to be more comfortable."

"As you say, Jeeves. I would simply be happy to be out of Uncle Tom's nightshirt. I have had it up to the neck with the dratted thing."

I had not worn nightshirts since I was a boy and had forgotten the way they can twist around one's legs and attempt to strangle the midsection. For this reason the fashion of wearing pyjamas to bed suits me, but with my pair soot-stained and smoke-scented, I had been forced to borrow from Uncle Tom's wardrobe. I would have preferred an old-fashion set of neck to shin underwear but time, travel and Anatole's cooking have taken their toll on my uncle's physique and rendered it quite dissimilar to my own, so when I tried on the garment, it sagged in the most ludicrous way. I would have been ashamed to wear it, let alone allow Jeeves to see me in it.

There was nothing I could do about the blasted situation until I returned to London and purchased more sleepwear, so it would have to be endured until then. Jeeves, in a way that did not surprise me in the least, did not share my opinions on nightshirts. I have often thought Jeeves would have preferred to have been born a good fifty years earlier when everyone woke up in nightshirts and put on morning coats. His tastes would have been the height of fashion.

This is normally the moment when Jeeves says something as innocuous as "Indeed, sir" or offers an opinion on the day's weather and the state of the household, but Jeeves remained oddly silent. Our conversations, humble and unimportant though they may be, are one of the first things I miss when Jeeves takes his annual sojourns -- those, and the prospect of a good cup of tea at home, always make me glad of Jeeves' return -- but Jeeves had been taciturn last night and continued to be so today. Perhaps he was trying to avoid my dissatisfied spirits, which would understandable given the circs, but his silence grated upon my nerves.

When one is used to discussing the minutiae of one's recent experiences, when one is used to the signs of careful, attentive interest to one's opinions, having that interest withdrawn does leave one with the desire to smash something small and highly fragile. I bit my tongue to ensure I did not bark some contradicting order -- to insist upon the brown vest, perhaps, or demand my grey pinstripe suit for this morning -- and stewed upon the facts.

The facts -- I thought to myself, feeling much like my fictional detective and wishing I still had my black and red trilby to truly play the part -- ran as so: Jeeves, despite his silence, had not acted and was not acting badly whereas I, despite my conscience, had the conflicting compulsion to either throw myself into Jeeves' arms or banish him from my sight. Due to that conflict, I was behaving atrociously and, if I did not correct my ways, Jeeves would vanish from my life and I would regret it. Also, the attempt to be civil left me with an appetite for violent destruction, and I was still wearing Uncle Tom's nightshirt.

That last point was not particularly relevant to the situation I faced re Jeeves, but it was the straw that threatened to shatter my vertebrae. If I had to be standing with one foot in the frying pan and one in the fireplace, I should at least be able to have a decent night's sleep in attire that would not try to choke and tether me.

This was my eureka moment (a phrase, I have found out, that did not come from Shakespeare but some ancient Greek cove, according to Jeeves). The flash of inspiration hit me like a cricket ball to the forehead and I saw the way out of my darkened, Cretan maze.

"Jeeves," I said, perking up, "this nightshirt situation needs to be corrected."

After placing my socks on the chair, beside the rest of the day's clothes, Jeeves glanced up. "Despite the most careful attention, your dressing gown and pyjamas remain irreparably ruined, sir."

"I refuse to spend the next week in Uncle Tom's nightwear, Jeeves. Take the two-seater back to London and buy me another pair of pyjamas and another dressing gown. Oh, also get another pair of slippers. After Tuesday night, I think we should keep a spare pair in the car, in case the need to drive miles in bare feet ever occurs again."

"I am sure the purchase could wait until you returned to the metropolis, sir."

"No, Jeeves, it cannot."

"I understand that celerity may seem necessary, sir, but an item as personal as sleep attire should be selected by the person who intends to wear it. If you remember, your aunt, Mrs Gregson, returned to her abode in London yesterday, so an early return to the capital would not be the most prudent action at this juncture."

"I'm not likely to forget that, Jeeves," I said sharply. "That is why you must go down and buy the items for me. No, buy two of each."

Jeeves raised an eyebrow, a small gesture that had been noticeably missing in our interaction of late. "You foresee a need for two pairs of pyjamas, sir?"

"If mine were wrecked, yours must have been as well."

"The differing quality of the fabric leads me to believe that, with due diligence, my clothing will be salvageable, sir."

"As much as I may applaud your work ethic, Jeeves, given the nature of those pyjamas, I doubt it is a wise decision to devote any time or effort into restoring them to their dubious glory." There was a twitch to Jeeves' lip and I grinned, feeling like a wind-up toy that had just been given a good turning. "Put it on my account, Jeeves. After protecting the family homestead and all that, the least you can do is let me provide replacements."

"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said. Then he excused himself -- to ready for the trip -- and I dressed as I congratulated myself on this corker of a notion. I would be left in peace for the day, Jeeves would be otherwise occupied, and I resolved that by the next time I saw him, I would return to my usual good-natured cheer.

That didn't literally work since the next time I saw him was when Jeeves stopped by to announce his imminent departure and to confirm that I wouldn't see him until tomorrow morning. It only took a quick bit of arithmetic, and a little surreptitious counting on my fingers, to realise that Jeeves would be forced to drive most of the night. It seemed a little much for an errand that was mainly designed to give me moping space.

"Jeeves, I think it would be better if you packed your bags and stayed in the metrop. I'll stay here, lie about for a few days until Aunt Dahlia stops threatening to leash hounds to the hall outside my bedroom door, and then take the first train up on Saturday morning."

The set of Jeeves' shoulders showed his dislike for the idea. "Given your current state of inconvenient infirmity, I believe an expeditious return would be advisable, sir."

"Flapdoodle, Jeeves," I said, waving away his concerns in no uncertain terms. "There are more servants here than I can count and a rabid aunt to keep them in line. I will be perfectly fine left to my own devices for a few days."

"There are forty-one members of staff, including the gardeners and stable hands, sir, and I believe you have overlooked recent changes to the train timetable. There is no longer an early Saturday service and you would be forced to wait until the two-ten train in the afternoon, which would result in you lunching at Brinkley Court before your departure."

"With Honoria, you mean? Oh, we can't have that, Jeeves. I'll take the Friday evening train and hope that Aunt Agatha is firmly ensconced in her dragon's cave."

"Travel by car would be more reliable, sir."

"I will be fine on the train, unless Aunt Agatha spots me." I winced at the horrible thought of being caught by that particular dreadful relative when I was unable to do anything but hobble in the opposite direction. "You will have to send me a telegram before I leave, Jeeves, and let me know if I should board wearing a disguise."

"A disguise, sir?"

"I'm thinking a particularly large hat and dark overcoat. Possibly sunglasses would be a good idea as well."

"They seem to be favoured in Hollywood films, sir."

"Then that settles the matter. Hat, coat and sunglasses. I'll make Waterbury stop at the village on Friday morning and pick them up. As long as you send me a telegram by two-ish, shall we say? As long as you send it and tell me if the coast is clear or if there are stormy clouds on the horizon, all will be fine, Jeeves."

Jeeves gave me a long glance, the type that counts seconds as well as any pocket-watch until I said, "Well, have a good journey and all that, Jeeves. I'll see you Friday night. I'll have the kitchen staff pack me something for the train, so don't worry about fixing dinner. If I'm hungry, I'll stop by the club."

"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, looking for all the world as if I had declared myself one of those futurist chaps and announced my intention to wear my red vest, yellow tie and blue socks at the same time. "I will see you on Friday, sir."

With Jeeves out of the county, I was left to mourn my own foolishness in peace. I sighed and flicked through pages, unable to muster any true interest in the printed word. I stared out the open window, glumly pondering on the possibility of rain. I gazed at the ceiling and thought wistfully on what I would never experience with Jeeves. When served meals, I picked at them and spent more time pushing vegetables around my plate than noticing the flavours (in and of itself almost considered a felony amongst the regular inmates of the place). In short, I let my spirits sink lower than the ill-fated Titanic and indulged my lovesick heart with all the misery it could bear.

The next time a friend tells you he is dying of anguish, yearning for one who will not have him, wasting away for want of the more tender feelings in return, put no faith in his story. It is a queer thing but allowing one's life to blacken and one's days to stretch into endless hours of soul-deep sighs and pained mourning brings its own peculiar satisfaction and comfort. There is something quite uplifting about such extreme unhappiness, giving one's all to the depressed emotions with as little inhibition as a Oxford fellow on Boat Race Night.

It is a method of purging I would recommend everybody to try at least once. If possible, I would say, attempt the feat away from family and friends, since they can -- not understanding the purging process -- interfere dreadfully. A perfect example of my point would be the combined efforts of Tuppy and Angela who nearly ruined my schedule of moping, sulking, and sighing.

First Tuppy stopped in to enquire about my spirits ("Gloomy," said I in funereal strains of woe. He rolled his eyes and muttered something about there being numerous maids in London, and I did not disabuse him of his misconception re the cause of despondency). He then proceeded to share the contents of his latest letter from Pongo Twistleton.

Pongo had written to share the latest misadventures of his uncle, Lord Ickenham. Like many earls, Lord Ickenham considers his peerage proof that he has done well in life and come a long way through his character and brains -- and, one must note, family inheritance -- and believes this has given him the onus of educating his nephew in the ways of life. While Ickenham was generally welcome in the Drones club for a meal -- until his wife declared he could no longer visit London, that is -- due to his ability to tell a rollicking story with gifted timing and accents when necessary, his educational afternoons have resulted in Pongo pretending to be Sir Roderick Glossop's nephew and on one memorable occasion, have had the police remove the pair of them from the dog races. (We had a rip around the club to raise bail money but Lady Ickenham had ponied up the cash, so we'd used the raised funds to buy enough rounds to make Pongo -- a mild-mannered chap if ever you've met one, and one somewhat prone to embarrassment -- forget the entire affair. As Pongo gains a definite chalky look at the mention of greyhounds, I can only conclude that we were not successful.)

There was a story of Blanding's Castle -- a place I've never been but my second cousin Algernon Wooster's cousin, Lord Percy, is a nephew of the chap who lives there, Lord Emsworth, so I'm somehow related to the place -- and it involved stolen pigs, church boys and the frightful combination of a bread roll and a top hat, and I quite forgot my current _raison d'etre_ and almost shared a hearty chuckle over the tale. It was only the thought of Jeeves' reaction to such a story -- the lightening of that noble brow, the glitter of those eyes, the serious moue that only signalled amusement to the keenest Jeeves-watcher -- that reminded me of my current predicament and sobered my mood accordingly.

In the afternoon, Angela visited with fudge from the village and a game of Lexico in the other hand. Angela, as I have mentioned, is a good egg, sweet natured and downright fun in a way that seems highly rare amongst the finer sex. This opinion was reinforced by her decision to allow words such as 'oomph' and 'tinkerty', and not change that verdict when use of the latter word gave me the winning score. It takes a girl of majestic class and overwhelming splendidness to do that.

I will not deny that for a handful of hours, my time was spent in pleasant company thinking of spelling lists of my youth or relatives more devious-minded than my own, but when left alone again, I put every effort into being as morose and melancholic as I could be. If you looked up the words depressing and lovelorn, I am sure the dictionary would tell you to see the entry entitled, 'Wooster, B, Current state of'.

In the midst of such indulgence, when you are feeling vindicated and satisfied, it becomes paradoxically hard to maintain your mournful air of pessimism and disappointment, and so the feelings perish of excess. This is how it went for me, so by the time I badgered Waterbury into taking me to the village -- achieved through polite asking and outright begging of Angela, Tuppy and Aunt Dahlia, and only allowed once I could prove myself capable of navigating the length of the corridor without limping -- I had started to regain my more usual outlook and was almost looking forward to the shopping expedition.

Shopping in a country village -- even a medium sized one like Market Snodsbury -- is always an adventurous affair. Unlike department stores where one expects mass-produced items of factory-born standards or Savile Row where one is assured of an exceptional cut and general quality, a country village survives on a strange combination of the two. There will be ready-to-wear garments that never fit as well as promised; there will be a local tailor and seamstress (sometimes they are one and the same, which rather baffles me, for how can someone trained in female fashion understand the importance of matching check on a suit or allowing for the correct cuff length on a creased pair of trousers?) capable of producing hand-stitched wonders; and there will always be the occasional homemade sweater contributed by village wives with knitting needles and too much spare time.

It makes the shopper feel rather like Aladdin in his cave, picking up old, battered brass lamps in the hope that closer inspection will reveal a magical inscription. Amongst the mundane and everyday, you will find both the occasional horror and godsend.

The horror of that outing was an eye-watering vest. I'm sure you must have heard of that group of Frenchmen calling themselves futurists and simultaneists, walking around the streets of Paris some years ago claiming to be dress reformers. If not, the long and short of it is that they wore the most atrocious, mismatched outfits -- I remember hearing of a red and green tuxedo, the mere idea of which is enough to give a presentable fellow the cold sweats -- and tried to combine as many colours and styles as they could, all in the name of revealing the future of fashion. Thankfully, fashion has never lost its wits enough to declare clashing colours and asymmetrical patterns acceptable wear.

This vest, although quite symmetrical, would have suited that group to the ground. It had diagonal stripes of yellow, red, bottle green, violet and powder blue, and was edged in chartreuse. All of these colours can be worn effectively when taken in small doses, but combined across the breadth of a man's torso will only serve to make women scream and children cry. I could only surmise that it must have been lovingly knitted by someone's colour-blind grandmother because despite the horrid amalgamation of shades, it was well made. Surely anyone capable of seeing the tones and knowing how the finished product would inspire nightmares wouldn't take such care in putting it together.

For a moment, I was tempted to buy the thing -- as truly awful as it was -- to hear the reaction in Jeeves' tone when I unpacked it. (I would have to unpack it. There was no way I could wear such a monstrosity.) I could picture perfectly the offended disgust in Jeeves' eyes, the coldness in his tone as he suggested that I would most likely be considered too old to be accepted as a circus runaway, regardless of my perceptible eagerness to become a clown.

The thought that stayed my hand from purchasing this harlequin item was consideration that Jeeves would not find the joke amusing -- indeed, he might take the shock rather hard -- and a trifling amusement was not worth causing Jeeves genuine distress.

So I passed by that item and found my metaphorical genie's lamp. It was a double-breasted overcoat in light grey Harris Tweed. It was slightly too long for me, too wide across the shoulders, too controlled and understated; in short, the perfect disguise. Combined with the dark bowler hat -- a size eleven, large enough to fall across my eyes and adding to the badly fitted, unsophisticated air of the ensemble -- I looked like a country-bred chump trying to appear serious and mature on his first trip alone to the city by wearing his father's trappings. I did not look a thing like the neat, presentable man of fashion that all knew Bertie Wooster to be.

I decided against buying sunglasses. They would have ruined the effect.

As fruitful as my shopping had been, it was for naught. I returned to the house to find a telegram from London stating that the coast appeared clear, so I had the extra garments packed into my suitcase and boarded the train _sans_ disguise.

After a not-too-short train ride spent in the merry company of Mrs. Christie's latest mystery -- another gem found during my spree at the village -- I hailed a cab and got off at Dover Street, giving the driver instructions to take my suitcases home. I ignored the flock of members around the billiards table -- the bi-annual Drones' Golden Cue tournament was coming up in three weeks' time and practice makes perfect, as they say -- and headed to the bar. A quick whisky and soda seemed in order.

I don't want to give the impression that courage was strictly necessary in returning to the flat itself, but the prospect of seeing Jeeves again left me with a cannonball of anxiety weighing down my insides, and courage -- no matter how Dutch its origins -- can be useful in such times.

I had one drink for courage and a second for luck, and was considering a third for the road, when Biffy called my name.

Biffy, Charles Edward Biffen by club register, is one of my oldest confreres, not that he'd remember it. It's not that he's an ungracious, rude type of fellow, prone to ignoring boyhood acquaintances when it suits, but that his memory closely resembles a photographic flash: it needs a good deal of careful work to set up and get going, and then only works for a split-second. He's a good old bean, though.

"Bertie, I was looking for you!" he said, waving an umbrella. I comment upon the umbrella not only because a man waving an umbrella makes a strong first impression but also because it was an unusual sight within the club. Rodgers is usually quite strict about umbrellas and overcoats being placed in their relative stands.

"What ho, Biffy. Be careful with that thing," I said, as he brandished it in my direction.

"It's yours," he said, passing it to me. Then he blinked, crunching up his face as Biffy is wont to do when attempting to remember something as obscure as his name or address. "I had to give it back to you."

I took it and gave it a good going over with my gaze. "I don't think it's mine."

"I'm sure it was..." Again, his face crumpled. "Bertie Wooster, yes. I'm sure I had to give this back to you, Bertie."

"Why, Biffy?"

"Mabel said so," he said.

The umbrella looked vaguely familiar, but for all I knew, the familiarity might have come from seeing it on Biffy's arm once or twice. I'd have asked Biffy for more details but knowing the way his memory works, I thought it best to cut to the chase. "Biffy, is Mabel about anywhere?"

Biffy started checking his pockets and then drew out the smallest notebook I've ever seen. It seem the sort that Poirot would have used to keep detailed notes on the private lives of his suspects -- shoe size and favourite jam, that type of thing -- but Biffy flicked it open and read carefully. "Yes. I'm meeting her outside the Drones' Club at eight o'clock."

"It's five past eight now, Biffy."

"Oh, is it? My watch says seven-twenty, Bertie."

I peered over Biffy's shoulder to see the pocket watch sitting in his palm. He was right in saying that it stated the current time in London as twenty minutes past seven, but close inspection revealed neither hand to be moving. "Biffy, is it possible that you might have forgotten to wind your watch?"

He turned his gaze to the wall-clock, which now proclaimed six minutes past eight, and then frowned at his pocket watch. "I suppose I must have, Bertie. Oh, well. Care for a drink?"

"Biffy," I said gently, not wanting to startle a good chap who happens to be cursed with the worst memory in all of recorded history, which would be a great deal shorter if recorded by birds like Biffy. "Weren't you on your way to meet Mabel outside the club?"

"Oh, yes," he said in the manner of someone suddenly remembering a highly important engagement, "I was."

"Come on, I'll walk you out." I took his arm in mine and, making sure that he collected his coat, led him outside. Mabel, patient saint that she is, was standing at the doors and did not utter a word of rebuke at Biffy's late appearance. "What ho, Mabel."

"Sorry, Mabel," Biffy said. "I forgot to wind my watch."

She shot him a fond smile. How a pretty, bright girl like Mabel -- who certainly seems to have slightly more than her fair share of marbles rattling around that blonde head of hers -- can look at a forgetful bird like Biffy with such fondness escapes me.

"Never mind, Charles," she said to him, then she turned to me. "Bertie, did Charles give you the umbrella?"

"He certainly did," I said, holding the thing aloft but taking care not to wave it. Waving umbrellas on city streets is bound to cause an accident. "But I don't think the thing's mine, Mabel."

"No, it's Uncle Reggie's. He left it at our place yesterday when he visited for tea. We thought you could return it to him," she said.

The code of the Woosters demands that a fellow comes to a lady's assistance, but I was stumped. "I'd be happy to, Mabel, but I don't think I know Biffy's Uncle Reggie."

"Not Biffy's Uncle Reggie, my Uncle Reggie," she said, but I still didn't follow her.

"Sorry, Mabel, I don't think I know your Uncle Reggie either."

"Reginald Jeeves," she said, speaking slowly as if for the hard of thinking. I fancy she uses that calm, quiet tone frequently with Biffy. "Your manservant. He is my Uncle Reggie."

There have been, I must admit, a few occasions during which yours truly, one Bertram W. Wooster, has felt like a complete fatheaded poop. I had never felt it quite so clearly as in that moment. Of course I had known that Mabel was Jeeves' niece -- that fact had been quite relevant to ensuring the Mabel-Biffy romance overthrew the threat of a Biffy-Honoria wedding -- and that Jeeves, like most civilised men, possessed a Christian name. I even, I must admit, knew that it was Reginald and that certain other members of the Young Ganymede Club called him Reggie.

I had known these facts and yet the conclusion had completely slipped my mind. This, I realised, was how Biffy must feel all the time. It left me with a new found sympathy for the chap.

"Oh, of course," I said, still feeling the sting of embarrassment. "I'll return it to him directly. Good night, Biffy. Good night, Mabel."

They each bade me a good night and I trotted home with the umbrella in hand.

I had stopped at my front door, checking my pockets for keys -- which I might have left in my suitcase -- when Jeeves opened the door wide. "Good evening, sir," he said, in a lukewarm way that lightened my anxiety considerably, and I took a moment to soak my senses in the vista.

There was my couch and my rug and my sitting room. There was the coffee table upon which I could prop my feet when reading a good tale and on the far side was my piano with my music sheets still sitting on the stool. There was the doorway to my bedroom, and beyond that, my bathroom. To my immediate left was the door to Jeeves' lair and to my immediate right was Jeeves himself, dark trousers, dark waistcoat, crisp white shirt and collar, and one perfectly tied tie.

It was home, sweet home, a private sanctuary from relatives and friends, nervous maids and French tennis coaches, and the sight filled me with a warm sense of comfort, of belonging, of safety. When a man has such a thing in his life, a place of repose, peace and contentment, it seems quite greedy that he should want for more.

I sighed happily, letting my sense of r., p. and c. bleed into the sound. "Be it ever so humble, Jeeves," I said and stepped inside.

"Indeed, sir."

I let him take umbrella, coat and hat. "It's quite true, Jeeves. There is an easing of the spirits that comes with stepping across one's own threshold and coming home at last."

"That is gratifying to hear, sir. I trust the journey went well?"

"Swimmingly, Jeeves. Not that I actually swam," I pointed out quickly. "I shared my cabin with a second year Eton boy by the name of Edward M-something. He was quite an upright young fellow. I mean, normally, you come across boys of a certain age and they're bound to either be miniature gangsters like my cousin Thos, trying to bully you out of a shilling, or squeaking, yellow-livered custards who threaten to tell their mothers if you so much as glance in their direction."

Jeeves shot me a sympathetic look borne from having my cousin Thos stay overnight. Jeeves had served dinner while Thos complained about the peas and then -- while I was distracted by a phone call and Jeeves was out of the room -- managed to scatter the disliked green items in the most unlikely places around the room. Let me assure you that when placing a hand down on one's sideboard in the early hours of the mid-morning after a late night, the last thing one wishes to feel beneath one's palm is a day-old squashed pea.

"It is certainly an awkward age, sir. Yet many grow to be productive members of society and make their families proud," Jeeves said with utmost authority. Somehow, I couldn't see that ever happening in young Thos' case. "But this young man did not display the more horrific attributes of his age-mates?"

"The young fellow was an absolute corker. Started telling me about his book and asked for my opinion." Nothing makes a chap feel quite so worthy as knowing that his opinion holds weight for his juniors. "It was a rummy tale about a missing school tie. He thought that Charles -- a lively type with a cutting sense of humour -- had taken it as a practical joke but I said, 'Young Edward' -- for that was his name, Jeeves, did I mention that?"

"You did, sir."

"Oh, good. 'Young Edward,' I said, 'You are overlooking the most likely subject. This boy here, this Algernon, he was secreting sweets at the start of the book, and we all know that sweets lead to sticky hands, and sticky hands lead to stained ties.' It's an oft-ignored fact that sometimes an action that appears the ultimate cruelty to another was done without any thought of hurt. Most frequently, it simply springs from desperate need."

"You believe that the tie had not been stolen by a classmate but borrowed without permission by the child, Algernon, sir?"

"Precisely, Jeeves." Feeling vindicated that Jeeves shared my logic, I smiled. "When it comes to schoolboys, it is a sad fact that a desperate friend will do you more damage than any embittered enemy."

"Some would say that depending upon your acquaintances that statement may apply much later in life as well, sir."

"Only if you mingle with the wrong sort," I said with feeling.

"Yes, sir." Jeeves gave a short tip of the head, acknowledging my point. "Were your predictions regarding the culprit correct?"

"I couldn't say, Jeeves. The boy didn't finish the book by the time we pulled in at London." I sighed. "I suppose I shall never know what happened. Meanwhile, I told young Edward about my story and he guessed it was the Colonel. I didn't have a clue of that until I hit the last chapter."

"He sounds very insightful for his age, sir."

"Remarkably bright, if you ask me. Helped the journey pass quickly." Here I paused to glance around my sitting room again. There is a remarkable comfort to being home, to knowing that everything has its place and that you are in yours. That thought brought the issue of my clothes to mind. "Are the bags all unpacked, Jeeves?"

"All but two items, sir. I thought it would be best to confirm that the articles in question actually belonged to you before placing them in our wardrobe."

"Indeed, Jeeves?" I raised my eyebrows. The last time Jeeves had spoken like that had been when I returned from Cannes with a particularly doggy pair of scarlet socks. I thought them utterly eye-catching but they accidentally got washed with two new soft-breasted silk shirts. My shirts -- formerly dove grey and peach -- were streaked with magenta, while my socks looked as if the colour had been sucked right out of them and were now an uneven pink. It had been disappointing at the time, but I have since ceased to try to insert soft-silk shirts into my wardrobe.

"If you will follow me, sir, I placed the items on your bed."

Jeeves led me to the bedroom and I easily recognised the pieces in question. "That's my disguise!"

Jeeves looked at me in a way that was not entirely frosty but far from the warmest expression I'd ever seen on his face. "Your disguise, sir?"

"Yes, Jeeves, my disguise. In case I needed to hide from Aunt Agatha at the train station."

"Indeed, sir?"

Jeeves looked quite doubtful, so I started pulling the items on. First the coat, which sagged a little across my shoulders and hung slightly around my chest, making me look like a man who had managed to lose both weight and height; then the bowler hat, which sat too low and hung over my eyes, covering half my ears. "You see, Jeeves?"

I turned to Jeeves and was met by an expression that hinted -- quite discreetly and in careful, gentle tones -- that I was possibly the most ridiculous and amusing sight Jeeves' gaze had ever absorbed. "Those garments do make it quite difficult to recognise you, sir."

"That is the point of a disguise, Jeeves. I thought it lent me a rather unsophisticated, naïve air."

"If I may say so, sir, your appearance is rather reminiscent of a child caught playing in the clothes of an older sibling."

"That was the very impression I was going for," I said, taking off the hat and trying not to feel too pleased. There was a part of me that wanted to celebrate the fact that I had managed to amuse Jeeves, but I firmly told it that making Jeeves laugh at me was not an accomplishment I wished to aspire to. I looked down at my hat brim, ignoring the minuscule twitch of Jeeves' lip -- if a man did not ignore such a sight it would drive him to distraction -- and found myself staring at the sizing. "You take a size eleven hat, don't you, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir."

I stepped up to him and placed the thing on his head. On me, it had fallen to just above my eyes and looked likely to tumble off if I should bend over. On Jeeves, it sat the ideal two-thirds of an inch above the eyebrows, a finger-space above the ears and looked as if it had been made specifically to fit this particular noggin.

"As I thought," I said, stepping back so Jeeves could see it in the mirror. "It fits perfectly."

Jeeves made no move to remove the item. "It is a remarkably fortunate fit, sir."

"Oh, wait a minute," I said, shrugging out of the overcoat quickly. From the corner of my eye I saw Jeeves wince slightly at the motion, but such minor things as careful undressing cannot stand in the way of a smashing idea. "You should try it on."

"Sir?"

"Come, come, Jeeves. Arms back, one at a time. I know this grey is a touch lighter than your sartorial tastes usually run but it's a perfectly respectable colour and a fine quality of wool. It would be well suited to a morning walk, say in early spring or a particularly clement winter's day."

I ran out of chatter as I pulled the garment over his shoulders and walked around to fasten the buttons. My flash of inspiration had been right. The shoulders that sagged on my own frame sat comfortably on his. Where it had hung and bagged on me so disgracefully, it seemed to generously fit Jeeves and tactfully imply a well-proportioned silhouette.

The only thing I took umbrage with was the collar, which refused to roll as it should. Stepping closer, I took the wool between my fingers, curling it over to lie correctly, but then the lapels needed to be smoothed, to lie equally flat on both sides. I did this once, twice, laying my palms flat against the material and pulling softly until they had assumed the correct shape.

Then I found myself running my hands across the lapels once more -- one last minor correction -- and realised I could feel Jeeves' every inhalation through my palms, could feel the pressure as he breathed in, the movement as he breathed out. I froze, suddenly aware of the speed of Jeeves' breathing, and wondered if I pressed a little harder -- or concentrated a little more -- if I would be able to feel the thrum of Jeeves' heart through the layers of grey, white and black cloth.

I might have stood there all night -- frozen like a statue, hands stretched flat against Jeeves' chest -- had Jeeves not cleared his throat and gave a slight cough that brought reality crashing against my consciousness like a tidal wave drowning an island shore.

I pulled my hands back sharply and took a good four steps back. I turned to the mirror and assessed Jeeves' reflection, not trusting myself to glance at the real thing. "As I said, Jeeves, perfectly respectable colour and the cut is not altogether unflattering. I don't foresee the need for a disguise in the immediate future so waste not, want not. You're welcome to the items but if they don't take your fancy, I'm sure you can find some other way to dispose of them."

Having said that, I marched briskly out of the bedroom and started making myself a martini. After giving it a good shake -- a more rigorous shake than it strictly needed -- and pouring out a glassful, I sat down at the kitchen table and pondered the whole thing. Clearly, it had been a bad idea to attempt to dress Jeeves myself, but it wasn't an occurrence that happened frequently. If I should depict it truthfully, it was more likely that I would be forced to speak in public (in front of strangers, I mean, not in the Drones' Club or in front of friends and the odd relative), something I rather despise and try to avoid if at all possible, than I would ever again have a need or an opportunity to dress Jeeves. The likelihood of it ever happening again was so small as to be completely negligible, so I put it down to an unfortunate lapse of manners and headed back out to the sitting room.

I had just finished my drink when Jeeves reappeared and whisked the empty glass back to the kitchen.

The most important thing was to continue as normal, so I searched for a safe topic of conversation. "I ran into Biffy and Mabel outside the club. They returned your umbrella, Jeeves."

"I had noticed, sir," Jeeves said calmly, returning to the sitting room and starting to tidy the sideboard. He has a habit of clearing away the mess each night and leaving my flat perfectly clean for every morning. It was a sight so homely and reassuring that I felt sure that Jeeves had not noticed the extent of the bedroom _faux pas_ and had seen my actions as overt enthusiasm for the clothes instead of lecherous groping of my valet.

"Mabel mentioned that you left it there yesterday, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir. After I returned to our flat I noticed that I had forgotten the article but when I telephoned they had already left for the night's festivities, so I could not confirm that the article was there."

"No point heading over if the dratted thing is somewhere else," I said, understanding why the umbrella had been left uncollected.

"My sentiments exactly, sir." Sideboard clear, I thought Jeeves would turn his attentions to the coffee table. But since I'd been gone for days, the coffee table was immaculate.

"It must be contagious. Biffy's memory," I clarified when Jeeves blinked in an uncertain way. "Every time I go over there I seem to forget something or other. Sometimes I wonder if there's something in the walls, some insidious poison that seeps through the skin and turns those little grey cells to the consistency of mashed potatoes."

"Unlikely, sir."

I bobbed my head, thinking it over. "You're probably right. If it was a noxious toxin, it would have affected Mabel by now, too, and she still seems bright as a brass button. It boggles me, Jeeves."

Jeeves raised one haughty brow. "My niece's intelligence, sir?"

"Oh, no, not the girl's intelligence. There's no question that all of her gears are well-greased and turn sharply," I said, quick to reassure the cove that no insult was meant against his kith and kin. "Let us say that it's her choices that baffle me. Here we have Mabel, a bright, pretty, charming lass and there, Biffy, one of the few men to be intellectually bettered by Barmy and able to make a sea cucumber look quick-witted by comparison."

"A somewhat harsh way of looking at facts, sir."

"Harsh or not, Jeeves, it is true. Biffy is the most forgetful poop I know and yet a girl like Mabel, a girl who would be considered a catch by any and all standards, falls for him. If it were simply a case of marrying for money and position I would understand it, Jeeves, but the way she looks at Biffy and the soft way she says his name makes it quite clear that Cupid's arrow has hit the tenderest regions of her heart."

Jeeves gave this matter a moment of serious thought. "They do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sir."

"Biffy is a fine chap, but he's not a ribbon-winner. It's not beauty that's blinding Mabel to his faults."

"You misunderstand, sir. I did not mean to imply that physical appearance had won her heart but that there are certain attributes that compensate for specific flaws," Jeeves said, and I waved at him to continue. "There are some traits that can be perceived as more valuable than mere appearance or intellectual potential. These traits can make a person fall heavily in love, despite the other person's flaws. It is a phenomenon that leads to considering the sum of a person's parts, focusing quite strongly on a person's virtues instead of their vices, and will lend an attractive air to the most humble of suitors."

"I suppose so," I allowed, thinking of other uneven matches.

Take Gussie Fink-Nottle: a fellow that looks like an amphibian -- and has a weaker self-survival instinct than one -- who has been engaged to three separate girls, all of whom would rate quite highly in the looks department. Discounting Angela, since her acceptance was the gesture of an irate and angered girl trying to truly get Tuppy's goat, it still left two girls who'd been batty for a fellow as bright and attractive as one of his own newts.

There had to be some sense in Jeeves' theory but it left me lukewarm. "You really think it's the personality that's attractive, Jeeves?"

"As William Shakespeare said, 'I do not love thee with mine eyes, for they in thee a thousand errors note; but 'tis my heart that loves', sir." Jeeves bowed his head in thought and then continued surely. "Love does not spring from appearance but from virtues. The value of a generous soul and a noble spirit cannot be underestimated. A kind, considerate nature and a cheerful disposition can melt the sternest heart. The ability to share open-hearted laughter and make one smile in the direst of circumstances is a rare and unusual gift."

"If you say so, Jeeves," I said, leaning back in my armchair, trying to imagine Biffy through Mabel's eyes. "But I wouldn't personally describe Biffy in those terms."

"It was not Mr Charles Biffen to whom I was specifically referring, sir."

"Oh, you meant universal appealing qualities, Jeeves? The things that would appeal to the masses?"

"Not precisely, sir. As the very phrase intimates, the level of appeal would depend on the individual beholder. One cannot speak for the general masses and their tastes in such matters as any man's knowledge is limited to his own nature and the traits that he values within his own life."

I considered Jeeves' point. "You have a point, Jeeves. For myself, I can't see how anyone could favour a touch of charity over the ability to remember one's own name, but different horses prefer different courses, I suppose."

"That is the primary thrust of the matter, sir."

"For my money, I'd go for brains every time. Well, brains and looks. And a general air of decency. Not a saint, but hopefully not someone who'd hand you over, bound and trussed, to a ravenous horde of aunts." I mused, thinking about Jeeves and my definite fondness in his direction. "It all comes down to a broad sense of rareness, I suppose."

"Rareness, sir?"

I scratched the back of my head, trying to think of a way to describe something that was nebulous, at best, inside my head. "Well, Jeeves, you know there are some girls -- very pretty, delightful, charming girls -- who seem to populate every village and city you visit. Chaps fall for them all the time, but if they fall out with one, there is always another in this town, or the next, to replace her. Whereas I think..."

"Yes, sir?" Jeeves said softly, clearly thinking that sudden noise might startle the idea straight out of my mind. I am not sure that his conclusion was wrong, either.

"There are some," I said after a moment and trying Biffy's trick of crumpling the face to encourage brain activity, "who leave you with a definite sense of rareness. Where you meet them and you know, without a single doubt, that if you travelled to a thousand countries and a thousand towns within each, and introduced yourself to a thousand people within each of those towns, that no matter how many people you met or how far you went, you would never find another quite like--"

I found myself staring at Jeeves and the word 'you' was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully the rest of my brain intercepted it. "Well, you'd never meet a person quite like that person, I guess. Making the person -- the original person, not all those people that you'd met -- quite rare, in the grand scheme of things. If you catch my meaning."

Jeeves watched me, his eyes dark, and I realised I had been too indiscreet, too obvious.

"Just a general observation, Jeeves. Nothing specific there at all. It seemed quite a pleasant night, earlier. I think I might go out for a quick walk. Apparently it's good for the digestion."

I stood up quite quickly and managed to grab my hat and coat before Jeeves managed a hoarse, "Sir," that threatened a conversation I did not wish to have. I didn't need him to rebuke my behaviour; I was quite aware it was unacceptable.

"Be back in a jiffy, Jeeves. Or an hour. Either one," I called out and fled my abode, disappointed in myself for not managing to last so much as a handful of hours around Jeeves before acting badly. I would simply have to watch my tongue more closely.

I had overlooked one important aspect in my plan to ankle around the city and avoid Jeeves until I could master some rudimentary form of self-control. That aspect was, in fact, my ankle. Days of lying in bed followed by a day of shopping and a train ride had left my minor sprain feeling rather major. The short stroll from the club to my flat had been more of a slow painful trudge earlier this evening and the prospect of walking further -- and turning that dull, tedious ache into something that closely resembled the sensation of being stabbed with a sharpened carving fork -- held no appeal.

The only thing I really wanted was to ditch Jeeves for a handful of minutes, to remind myself of the dire consequences of allowing my insidious infatuation to show. Specifically, these d. c.s would be discomfort for all and would permit Jeeves no option but to resign from my employment, leaving me bereft, empty-hearted and surrounded by badly ironed shirts. In short, I needed to give myself a stern talking to and I could see no reason why this could not be done while sitting propped against the supportive outside wall of Berkeley Mansions.

So, I sat upon the concrete, stretched my legs out before me and dithered over whether apologising to Jeeves -- re: my most recent slip-ups -- would be the acceptable, right thing to do or if gentlemanly manners demanded that I ignore the whole thing. I waved away the doorman when he enquired about my well-being, as if a perfectly healthy chap doesn't have the right to sit outside his domicile for ten minutes if he chooses, and had barely got rid of the fellow when the shadow once more fell across me.

"Browne," I said, for that was the doorman's name, not the most suitable name given his pale skin and grey hair, but his name nonetheless. "As I have already said, I am perfectly fine here and am not at all unwell. I thank you for your concern but it is completely superfluous."

"Sir," the figure above me said, giving me the urge to bury my head in my hands since the voice did not belong to the rather rotund figure of Browns but the elegant figure of Jeeves. I did not bury my head in such a manner for fear of lending credence to Browns' apprehensions _vis-à-vis_ my current physical and mental state, but the urge was there.

"Jeeves," I said, trying to hide my dismay within a tone of cheerful enthusiasm, "were you heading out for the night? If so, don't let me stop you. Go on, have a good time."

"No, sir. The doorman informed me of your unusual behaviour. I came to offer assistance in your return to our flat."

"As we are not in the midst of the countryside, Jeeves, and I am not incapacitated, I think it safe to assume that I can bally well walk up to my own flat." I glared up at him reproachfully but given the angle and the streetlamp lighting, I could only make out a bowler hat and a figure of immense height, and could not judge his reaction. "It is not as if I need you to carry me."

"As you say, sir."

To the casual observer, it would seem that I had won the argument and would be allowed to sit where I pleased but this was not the case. Jeeves continued to stand beside me, the perfect picture of devotion and duty, waiting for the moment that I would rise. You can't tell a chap like Jeeves, standing in such a position of such incorruptible loyalty, to go boil his head because you want to sit on the cold concrete until you trust yourself in his presence once more. I suspect that you can't tell a chap like Jeeves to go boil his head under any circs, no matter how catastrophic, but you especially can't say such words in the current situation.

I was left with no option but to stand and follow him back to the flat, feeling for all the world as if I was eight years old and being sent to Rev. Aubrey's study for a firm discussion on acceptable classroom conduct, to be followed by six of the juiciest.

When we got back to the sitting room, I took my place upon the couch, sitting upright and tense, and decided to grab the livestock by the horns. "Jeeves, I abjectly apologise for my previous actions and I know that I've made it jolly hard for us to continue in the _status quo_ but it has been quite unintentional. If you could simply allow me a little more time to adjust to the truth of current relations -- get my head around it so to speak -- I'm quite sure I can promise an end to this nonsense."

I dared a glance up at Jeeves -- who seemed quite surprised I'd dared to broach the topic so brashly -- and then returned my attention to my tightly folded arms.

"It really is quite simple, Jeeves. You agree to bear with me during this period of adjustment and _quid pro quo_ …" Here, I faltered, my Latin abandoning me. I was stymied for a moment by the idea of what I could offer Jeeves, how I could bribe him to stay despite my unfortunate performance, and then the idea came to me. "How about a holiday, Jeeves? Surely there must be somewhere you're itching to see, some monsters of the deep begging to be caught?"

"Sir," Jeeves said, soundly vaguely offended by the very idea of considering the trivial pastime of travel at such a moment.

"Think about it, Jeeves. All expenses paid, wherever you want, however you want to get there. It would be in addition to your usual holidays, of course, and when you return I promise that all will be back to normal and I will have purged this folly from my system."

There was a long moment of silence and then Jeeves cleared his throat. "I distinctly doubt that your proposed solution of temporarily parting company will solve the situation in a satisfactory way for all concerned, sir."

I had the positive impression that someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of my collar. "Possibly not, Jeeves, but I'd beg you to try it before taking more permanent action."

Jeeves stared down, apparently taking a violent dislike to the colour of my carpet. "I believe discussing the events of causation would prove far more fruitful, sir."

"Oh, no, let's not hear a word about it," I said hastily, dreading what a discussion like that might reveal. "If you would simply allow me further time to act as a decent fellow should in these circs, all would be well, Jeeves."

"If you will allow me, sir, I must confess that I doubt that we share a clear understanding of the events that occurred."

"The matter was settled."

"Sir--"

"There is no need, Jeeves," I said, talking through him. As rude as it was, I believed it necessary to put Jeeves' mind at rest as quickly as possible. "There was no confusion, no misconstruction. A discreet offer was made and was not accepted. You acted in an entirely civil fashion and I assure you that I am attempting do the same. I am simply not succeeding as well as I would like."

"Sir?"

"I'm not like Angela's Uncle Cecil -- Uncle Tom's brother, you understand, not actually my uncle -- who believes that employing someone is synonymous with being accepted as their paramour, if synonymous is the word I want."

"It is, sir."

"But, yes, I am not that type of employer, Jeeves. I would not dream of pressing my suit any further and I certainly would not hold these events against you in any way. The matter was handled with the least amount of embarrassment possible, and--" Here I ran out of steam like a locomotive headed uphill and out of coal. There was a limit to how much one can say in these situations without causing excess harm to either one's own, or the other person's, feelings. "And there is no way to dictate to the heart. If mine feels one way and yours feels another, then that is simply the way of things. We are two men of the world, Jeeves, and I am sure that we can continue in our old ways and speak no more about this."

"But, sir--"

"Oh no!" I cried, waving an authoritative finger in the air. "That is my final word on the matter. There is nothing more to be said."

"Sir," Jeeves said, quite ignoring my authoritative finger-waving, "I must insist."

I allowed myself to slouch back upon the couch and folded my hands across my lap. I had done all I could to make the matter as painless as possible. If Jeeves wished to insist, I couldn't bally well stop him. "Very well, Jeeves, speak on it. But if I hear words of resignation cross your lips, I shall be dreadfully disappointed in you."

"I have no intention of resigning, sir," Jeeves said firmly.

I grinned at that news. That had, since that awkward walk across the rose garden, been my highest concern. It had hung over my head, blocking out sunshine more effectively than the darkest rain cloud.

A fellow like Jeeves can operate well anywhere and for anyone. I doubt there is a single gentleman in England who would not sell aunts and grandmothers alike for the opportunity of having Jeeves as their own manservant. It was quite easy to imagine Jeeves happily employed in some great house in the country, a townhouse in London, or in Buckingham Palace itself.

I, on the other hand, had grown quite dependent upon Jeeves and could not imagine my life without him. But if he was not resigning, I could bear whatever else he said. Even if he turned around, much like an aunt, and started dictating household rules for the rest of my life, I could happily bear it. "Truly, Jeeves? Then the floor is yours."

"Thank you, sir," Jeeves said and that strange stillness -- that statue-like silence from the gardens -- returned.

I held my tongue for a while and then shifted. "Was there something in particular you wished to say, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you intend to say it?"

The fellow did not meet my eyes. "Yes, sir."

He stood stricken, and I admired his profile from my current perspective -- thinking upon the sharp way his hair was brushed back, revealing a hairline that struck me as quite bold and definite, like some French movie star -- until I realised the lay of my thoughts and chided myself for having so little resistance to temptation. I turned my gaze to the end of the couch and pondered.

It was quite impossible to imagine what would have a brilliant cove like Jeeves blocked. A chap who knows the scientific name of everything to flitter, crawl or slither across the earth and can recite a quotation without resorting to books of reference is not easily stymied in conversation.

Then I realised that if he wished to berate me, if he disapproved of my actions at Brinkley Court, his high sense of loyalty and strong feudal spirit might make it hard for him to say the words. That must be it. "Would it be easier if I got you pen and paper, Jeeves? Then you could write it out. If it's particularly censorious of my behaviour, I promise to burn it as soon as I've read it."

"I--" Jeeves said, and then stopped. He took a deep breath and set his shoulders even straighter. "I do not condemn your behaviour, sir."

"You don't?"

"If anything, I would applaud it, sir."

"I think I've missed something, Jeeves. You may need to explain."

"I will try, sir. I would--" He spoke, in short sharp bursts, a word or two at a time like some strange jazz piece full of staccato rhythms. Not the type of thing made for easy listening or dancing, and it would take a bit of effort to hum along to. "I would applaud the courage to talk of one's emotions. I would... I must confess that I lack the same courage."

It was a rummy situation to have Jeeves standing in his stiff collar and pressed trousers, head bowed and completely discombobulated. I tried to chip in and give the fellow a hand. "Jeeves, are you apologising for not speaking freely of how you felt?"

"Yes, sir."

"Am I right in assuming you've been berating yourself for this perceived failure in the gardens of Brinkley Court?"

He raised his head a little, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. "Yes, sir."

In a flash, I saw the situation: Jeeves fretting that he had not acted in the best possible way. It was quite amazing -- and to me, seemed nothing short of wonderful -- that a bird as brainy, as rare, as all-around toothsome as Jeeves should spend his valuable time and mental powers worrying that he had not handled an unwanted advance in the most correct manner. It was this attention to detail, this awareness of the slightest matters of deportment that made Jeeves the best gentleman's personal gentleman of all the isles.

I could see that he needed to be reassured.

"Oh, that's nonsense, Jeeves. Simply because you didn't turn around and tell me to go jump in a lake, that you'd rather marry an angora sheep than consider yours truly is no reason to beat yourself up. On the other hand, if you were going to say that you were flattered and had circs been different, there is no need. I've received many of those speeches and they never sweeten the blow. At the end of the day, you have exposed yourself to someone who simply cannot see you in that same light. There is nothing that can be said to make it any better, so a comforting silence is left as the superior method of rejection."

"Sir," Jeeves said, sounding as annoyed as if I had gone to Cannes and returned with another white dinner jacket or, in other words, quite piqued. "I had no intention of remaining silent."

"You had no intention of doing anything, Jeeves," I said. If these lines had been played on stage, I would have laughed at such a silly thought. But laughing at Jeeves, when he was clearly struggling against his own _modus operandi_ , was unthinkable. "You had no idea I was going to all but propose in the middle of searching for an owl with long ears. How could you have had an intention of doing anything?"

"I had strong suspicions that you would, sir."

I frowned. "I thought I'd been exceedingly subtle about the whole affair."

"Living in close proximity can make such subterfuge quite difficult, sir."

"Well." I sighed in disappointment. All of those schemes had been for nothing. I should have known Jeeves would be able to see through any less than the most complex plans. "If you'd known I was going to say such a thing, wouldn't it have been a little simpler to say your affections were engaged elsewhere, Jeeves? I know it would have been a lie -- and truth is generally considered the better option -- but it would have saved at least two awkward conversations, counting this one."

"When I imagined what you would say, sir, I never believed that I would be struck mute. I never considered," Jeeves said, his voice dropping lower, "that you would both deem and accept my silence an act of refusal."

That made me sit up straight. I jumped at least an inch in my seat. Possibly two. "You mean to say that it wasn't, Jeeves? The silence, I mean. It wasn't a refusal?"

"No, sir." Jeeves lifted his head, and stared me right in the eye. For a chap that usually shows so little, his gaze was astoundingly intense. Windows to the soul and all that. "It was not."

"By Jeeve, Joves! I mean, you know what I mean," I babbled, the words running quicker than a team of galloping horses. "It was cold feet, nerves, that type of thing? Like when your tongue gets stuck to the roof of your mouth and your hearts starts pounding, and you desperately know what you should be saying, but you can't, because of the stuck tongue and the pounding heart?"

Jeeves gave one of those slight smiles of his, barely more than a quirk of the lips but still capable of turning my insides to jelly. "That would be an accurate description, sir."

"Oh," I said. "I say!"

I grinned quite widely and for lack of anything else to say -- and knowing that Jeeves does not particularly approve of the phrase 'Hot dog!' in times like these, regardless of how appropriate it may be -- I repeated myself. "I say, Jeeves!"

I suddenly understood why so many engagements end up in the social columns of the Daily Mail. When something so wonderful happens to you, you want to announce it to the world, yell it out of windows, telephone every friend you have. It's an amazingly elated moment when you find that the chap -- or girl, since I'm sure the heart works the same way no matter who you find yourself swooning over -- that you love has somehow fallen in love back. It brings the metaphorical sunshine to your face, makes the birds sing in the trees, makes bells ring from on high.

Jeeves, still smiling and looking a little stunned, leaned closer and said, "Should I get that, sir?"

"Get what, Jeeves?" I asked, leaning closer myself.

"The doorbell, sir."

I stopped and listened. The bells from on high very well could have been my doorbell. I considered telling Jeeves to leave it, but that would have been quite rude. "Yes, Jeeves."

I stood up and helped myself to a brandy and soda, as Jeeves moved to the door. It was just as well I'd moved to the decanter and was therefore out of sight from the doorway, because Aunt Agatha's voice rung out clearly.

"Jeeves, where is my wastrel nephew? Bring him out at once."

The shock of it nearly made me drop the glass.

"He is at the Drones Club, madam."

"Tell him when he returns he is to call me immediately. No, Jeeves, that won't do. Knowing Bertie he'll drag himself in at an ungodly hour, soaked with gin and brandy, and completely unfit for company. Tell him I will expect him to visit me tomorrow afternoon and if he is later than four-thirty, he will pay for it dearly."

I cringed, but once more, Jeeves came to my rescue. "I am sorry, madam, but that will not be possible. Mr Wooster is leaving the city tomorrow morning."

"If he thinks he can hightail it back to Brinkley Court and avoid me so obviously, you had better tell your young master that if he does so, he clearly does not value his family or his own reputation in the least."

"Mr Wooster is leaving for Venice tomorrow, madam, quite early in the morning. If he had known of your intention to visit today, I am sure he would have made every attempt to see you before he departed."

My Aunt Agatha left, muttering something about the youth of today who do nothing but seek thrills across the globe, and as soon as the door closed, I stepped away from the sideboard and towards Jeeves. "Jeeves, I have said it before and I will say it again, you are a marvel. The only problem will be getting tickets to Venice at such short notice. But never mind, I have escaped Aunt Agatha for at least two more days, and if I have to swim and bicycle to Venice, I shall do so."

"That will not be necessary, sir." Jeeves stepped closer to me, as if he were about to correct my tie, and placed a hand on the side of my neck. Certainly not the raciest way to be touched, but I can't deny it shortened my breathing considerably. "I have already purchased the tickets."

In such a situation, some fellows are suave and charming, they know how to lean forward and kiss as if they were in the movies. I was clearly not movie material as my hands stayed glued to my sides and for a moment -- only a word, I swear -- my voice decided to try being a soprano instead of a tenor. "That's lucky, Jeeves. I hadn't planned to go to Italy."

"I thought it would be a prudent precaution, sir, in case I found myself once more struck voiceless and unable to correct your false assumption of my feelings." Jeeves stepped closer, and when he spoke, his face, his skin, his lips, were only a hairsbreadth from mine. "Also, it is quite nice this time of year, and Venice has a reputation as a very romantic city."

"I think I've heard that," I managed, suddenly quite aware of the precise amount of space Jeeves took in a room and the warmth of his fingers under my soft collar, sliding quite plainly against my skin. "Venice being romantic. There was a song, wasn't there?"

"That was Vienna, sir."

"Oh."

As I mentioned before, if I had been a silver screen hero, things would have gone quite differently. I would have leaned forward and pulled Jeeves into a strong embrace, kissed him with enough ferocity to make him swoon. But as it was, I was the one who stood there -- heart tangoing around my ribcage, arms glued to the side like a tin soldier -- so Jeeves was the one forced to bend closer and press his lips to mine.

While it was not as graceful or moving as any of those cinematic kisses -- I finally forced my hands to move and flailed for Jeeves' shoulders, and I am quite sure that no screen siren has made the range of embarrassing, muffled moans that I did -- from my point of view, I would say it was every inch as good. After all, none of those filmic smackers feature Jeeves, and I'm sure that without Jeeves it can be nothing more than a substandard variety of kiss.

As you may imagine, these kisses proved a most enjoyable way to whittle away time. Jeeves was as proficient with the application of mouth and hands as he was at preparing the old eggs and b. in the bright and early hours, and I was having a rollicking good time of it -- appreciating Jeeves' rather splendid skills and trying to mimic as best I could -- until Jeeves drew back with a gentle reminder of the next day's early departure.

"It may be a wise decision to retire early," Jeeves said, using his full height to pull that talented mouth out of casual kissing reach. Thankfully he did not remove his hands, but let them rest where they were - one low upon my left hip, the other cupping the nape of my neck, sending the occasional shiver down my spine when he brushed his thumb just so -- but I still let out a disappointed sigh. In such moments, regardless of how wise or prudent the denial of pleasures may be, it is hard not to let out at least a small chuff of dismay.

"I suppose in this particular instance," I said, swallowing down the bitter dregs of fortune, "as in most, you're quite right, Jeeves. A good night's sleep does wonders or so I'm told. Normally by Aunt Dahlia when she wants me to biff upstairs and leave her in peace, but the sentiment has its ounce of truth."

"I was not suggesting the pursuit of slumber, sir."

"Then why suggest the bedroom, Jeeves? What purpose--" I stuttered to a halt as Jeeves' moved his thumb just so and sent the most pleasurable chill down my supportive framework. There was a certain satisfied gleam to Jeeves' expression as he noted my reaction. Like the first caveman to strike flint and use a single spark to ignite a blaze, I saw how the more intimate setting of a bedroom could spark Jeeves' above-standard kisses into far more heated exertions. "Oh!"

Jeeves pressed a warm kiss against the corner of my jaw and then whispered directly into my ear. "If the idea meets with your approval?"

Well, pretty hard for a chap to say no to an offer like that.

I'll not bore you with all of the messy minutiae of the activities that followed. There are some endeavours that, while enjoyable, cannot be appreciated by an observer. Roderick Spode eating asparagus is a prime example of this: while it is quite clear that Spode himself is rejoicing in every mouthful, anyone watching the sight would be torn between horror and amusement. The more carnal proceedings are the same. Quite satisfactory for the two involved parties but a third party would find themselves trying to stifle giggles as they noted the ridiculous stretch of leg or the half-shocked, half-drunk expression that one's face unintentionally pulls.

Suffice it to say that events were quite satisfactory to both parties. If you think of the most romantic film you've ever seen -- something so stirring that come that final kiss your friends gave you a sharp elbow in the ribs in retaliation to your unexpected gasp of vicarious thrill -- and multiply that sense of delight by seventeen and a bit, and you will have a rough approximation of how enjoyable the experience was to me.

While I cannot speak for Jeeves in this matter, I hold no doubts that he found it quite agreeable.

After this, I was left in quite the same frame of mind as the night before my twenty-third birthday. I had stayed at Brinkley Court, eaten the type of meal that should be recorded for posterity, and would be leaving the next day for the metropolis for a birthday lunch at the Drones', which was expected to last for at least six hours. While I knew that the upcoming day would be smashing and that the quicker I fell asleep, the faster tomorrow would arrive, I found myself not wanting the day to end. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself and the prospect of sleep was not in the least appealing. Due to that, I spent most of the night in my armchair, flicking pages of books, appreciating a quiet w-and-s, and generally feeling at one with the world and that all was right.

While I was situated quite differently at the moment, there was that same air of contented wonder, of silent gratitude to my mood. For those of you curious about such things, those readers who like to know the precise layout of the place and details of setting, the situation was thus:

\- One bedroom, suitably large, containing two doors (one to my bathroom and one to the rest of the flat), one tall, walnut wardrobe against the east wall, one matching dressing table against the south w., two matching bedside tables against the north w. with one large bed between them.

\- Within that bed, beneath sheets only (because the blankets had fallen to the ground halfway through the proceedings), lying just right of centre, was one unclothed R. Jeeves lying supine. To the direct left of him was one similarly disrobed B. Wooster, recumbent and reclining on his side with his left arm and leg draped over the aforementioned Jeeves.

Now that we all know where we are, I'll continue.

It's a strange and little publicised fact that one's inhibitions and doubts tend to be shedded with one's clothing. I had noticed this effect before but always put it down to mitigating factors, such as hot water when in a bath or extreme intoxication when one's had a skinful and decided to cycle naked around the college quadrangle. Instead, I found that the lack of _accoutrement_ itself is the cause. Where I would usually ease into a conversation or apologise for bunging straight to a topic without so much as a by-your-leave, when naked I felt no such compulsions and let my mouth speak as my mind wandered.

I had been contemplating Jeeves' shoulders and the fine musculature displayed by them, and my mind had drifted to other well-muscled shoulders. "Do you really think Angela could beat Honoria?"

Jeeves' hand continued to trail purposelessly along my forearm, a light tingle of sensation that held the same warmth and reassurance as a good cup of tea after a cold walk through a blizzard.

"I believe Miss Angela will try her utmost towards that goal," Jeeves said, prevaricating.

"But this is Honoria we're talking about. It goes without saying that we're all rooting for Angela to win, but to be perfectly honest, I have my doubts. No matter how good Facet is, Honoria is a one woman rugby team."

"Quite true."

"And if Honoria wins, Angela will be _sans_ necklace and then soon _sans_ engagement. It's all quite dismal."

"Not necessarily," Jeeves said in that soft tone that boded well for those in, or about to be neck-deep in, the mulligatawny.

"Indeed, Jeeves?"

"During my return to London to purchase nightwear," Jeeves said, voice dropping a good ten degrees on those last two words, "I took the liberty of making enquiries regarding the necklace. After contacting the jewellers who made the original item, I was able to persuade them to make a duplicate, explaining that the young lady had misplaced the item while travelling and was entirely distraught. I inferred that there may have been some slight negligence in the packing of her suitcases and that obtaining a replica would put the young lady's mind at rest."

"And did they agree to make one?"

"They did, after concurring on a set sum that I assumed you would have no objections to covering."

"No objections at all, Jeeves. Quite the opposite. If parting with a little moolah will ensure a happy cousin, a happy friend and by extension a happy aunt -- for you know how Aunt Dahlia supports the whole Tuppy-Angela affair -- I'm more than happy to share the bread."

"A magnanimous attitude," Jeeves said, turning his head slightly to wish a light kiss against the Wooster b. "With that philosophy in mind, I took the liberty of purchasing M Facet and the future Mme Facet a congratulatory gift on your behalf."

"What did I get them?"

"A set of dictionaries."

I freely admit that I rely upon Jeeves in such matters, and he has never yet let me down. Although in this instance, it looked like he had come rather close. The fellow had probably been a bit distracted at the time, so I mitigated my doubts. "Sounds a touch colourless for a gift celebrating their engagement."

"It was a set of French-to-English and English-to-French dictionaries."

"Well, that's rather insightful. Speaks of great… What do you call it? Starts with a D."

"Discernment?"

"That's the word. Speaks of great discernment on my part."

"A thoughtful souvenir is known to have the ability to mitigate first impressions and negate actual experiences over time."

I pulled myself up on an elbow. "Are you saying that after spending days in my company it is only the giving of a minor trinket that would make the happy couple think well of me, Jeeves?"

Jeeves, for his part, merely raised an eyebrow. He could not have expressed the insouciant air of a stiff "I hardly need to say it," if he had said those very words.

With a sheepish huff, I settled once more upon his shoulder. "Perhaps, from certain perspectives, I seemed an annoying interloper, but I was acting in the best interests of all involved. Or I thought I was. The situation was jolly confusing. Anyone might have acted as I had."

"That is far from true," Jeeves said in a warm, tender tone that made me think of Mabel talking to Biffy. "Very few would have acted so selflessly when they believed their affections had been thwarted."

"That's putting it a bit strong, Jeeves. It was not selfless. I would have received a definite pleasure from seeing you happy. Although," I added quickly, "I'm far happier that things ended this way."

Jeeves gave a general noise of agreement and then kissed me in a way that gave more than general agreement. As I have said -- and have since proven time and again -- kissing Jeeves is an excellent way to spend an idle minute or thirty. Most of the night was spent lying close, sharing languid kisses and ironing out a few misunderstandings here and there. This included my admitting to the short lived existence of my striped flannel trousers and Jeeves acknowledging that my cousin Gussie had asked for Jeeves' advice before hightailing it across the Pacific and proposing to a stage actress.

I am quite sure my more polite readers would be saying -- if they could interrupt me to say such a thing -- "This is a very charming anecdote, Mr Wooster, but I fail to see the relevance to the topic." My more impolite readers would be stamping their feet at the back and yelling, "Get to the point!"

My point is as follows. When asked if I have ever managed to get the upper hand on Jeeves, I must admit that my attempt to smuggle striped flannels into my wardrobe was a bust and trying to keep my feet rooted to the green land of England was likewise unsuccessful. However, in this more intimate tale, my achievement was unbridled and somewhat gained at Jeeves' expense.

I don't speak here of my juvenile schemes, for without them the agreeable outcome would have been achieved far more speedily. Rather, I speak of the terms of our arrangement, making Jeeves a permanent fixture, romantically speaking.

When one is given the opportunity to forsake all others in trade for one R. Jeeves, one jumps, gallops and leaps to consent. It is rather like being given the chance to swap a handful of sand for a galley stacked with pounds sterling. While sand may have its uses -- in the manufacture of glass, so Jeeves tells me -- compared to being remarkably oofy, it holds very little value.

Jeeves, on the other hand, has agreed to forsake all others in favour of one Bertram Wilberforce. The most accurate way to describe such an exchange would be to imagine a fisherman sitting by a robust stream, well populated with various fish. This fisherman catches a small trout -- not bad eating but certainly not the biggest fish there -- and decides that's enough for him; there'll be no more fishing in his future.

The fisherman could have had good reason for packing up the rod -- perhaps he was tired, perhaps he'd already eaten his fill at lunch and only needed a small dinner, perhaps he'd decided that waiting for a bigger, tastier fish was more effort than it was worth -- but one cannot escape the thought that he had turned his back on a great deal of potential.

I'll be the first to admit I'm not the hardest boiled egg in the pot -- according to certain relatives of mine, the contents of this Wooster cranium are decidedly undercooked -- but even I can see that the understanding between Jeeves and me, and the relevant terms agreed by each, is inequitable.

I've not pointed this out to Jeeves. He seems content with the arrangement and I have learnt that it only bodes ill to question Jeeves' reasoning. If Jeeves feels the course is for the best, then that course shall -- eventually -- be adhered to. Mind you, the best of minds have known to be softened by infatuation so I suspect his agreement has more to do with the heart than his massive head. It's like that bit that goes, "The ruling passion, something something will, the ruling passion conquers reason still."

In conclusion, dear reader, having once managed to get the best of Jeeves, I now get the best of Jeeves daily.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://phoebesmum.livejournal.com/profile)[**phoebesmum**](http://phoebesmum.livejournal.com/) for betaing something of this length. Thank you to [](http://0bake.livejournal.com/profile)[**0bake**](http://0bake.livejournal.com/) who inspired and encouraged this story, even though it was originally meant to be a 500 word drabble. A huge thank you to everyone who read along in my LJ and squeed as I wrote: I never would have got this finished without all you guys.
> 
> As a post-script, I'd like to defend the word "buttinski" which was used in the 1920s, modern though it sounds.


End file.
